2. Sly
Before my eyes even open, I sense the brightness of light behind them. My upper body hums with a dull ache as the unmistakable sounds of machines beep and drone all around me.
My eyes fight to open, the heaviness of them protesting the movement. When they finally begin to show me my surroundings, my vision is blurred. Beyond the unfocused haze is the shape of a woman with dark brown hair.
Vincenza?
Of course, she’s the first thing I think of when I wake—she’s the first thing I think of every single day and every night before I go to sleep.
For months, I’ve tried to stop loving her. Begged myself in the darkness of the night as I lay awake, to let her go. So badly, I’ve wanted to move on from the the hurt inside and the love I still cling to, but I can’t. Telling myself not to love her is like telling myself to stop breathing.
Impossible.
Unfathomable.
“Ah, it’s good to see you waking up,” the figure says, her voice sweet like honey, but not the soft sound I long to hear.
Blinking a few times, she comes into view, her warm smile greeting me as I get my bearings.
She reaches forward and grabs the remote attached to my bed, lifting it so that I am seated more upright.
“Try not to move around too much. You might be in some pain. My name is Nurse Franklin. You’re at Ridgewood General, safe and in fantastic hands. I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, and I’d like you to answer to the best of your ability.” She moves to the machines, reading the figures, before returning her attention back to me. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Sylvester Lucchetti,” I croak, my voice hoarse.
“Good. Wonderful. Can you tell me why you’re here?”
“There was a shooting. I was shot.”
“You were. You came in with a gunshot wound to the chest. The doctor will go over everything with you—he should be in shortly. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”
My mind is racing, memories flooding back from the shooting. The roar of engines from incoming motorcycles. The gunfire ringing out into the middle of the barbecue I attended.
“Is Rosie okay?” I ask, my voice cracking as I say her name.
Shortly after my arrival in Ridgewood, California, I joined a motorcycle club. The Sinners Warlord became my unexpected salvation. The group of men was the city’s very own vigilante group, taking it upon themselves to assist the local police department with keeping horrible people off the streets. Protecting Ridgewood’s women and children was the main priority of The Sinners.
Joining them and helping to protect the new place I call home seemed like a natural choice for me.
I left everything behind in New York.
Everything.
My family. My profession.
My love.
The Sinners became my family when I so desperately longed for mine. Without even knowing it, they helped me through some of the darkest weeks of my life. They gave me a purpose.
A reason to continue living.
And then there was Rosie.
When I joined The Sinners, the bar that they resided above was for sale, and within a matter of weeks, a new owner came in. A clause within the sale was that The Sinners’ rental agreement was to be carried out for the full five-year term.
Which didn’t pose a problem until the new owner realized our club”s prez was her ex’s brother. The same man who just so happened to break her heart.
She and I had parallel pain. I understood the heartache she faced when she looked at him, as it was a similar pain to what I felt simply thinking of Vincenza.
And Cain didn’t make it easy on her to continue her healing process. He didn’t want her to close the door on him. He wanted a second chance.
Rosie took me by surprise by slipping into the role of my best friend, filling the void left by not speaking to Sully and Enzo. She was firey, independent, and headstrong. I admired her and her strength.
Our friendship naturally progressed one evening when we both desperately craved an escape from the emotional turmoil we faced. I could not be with amore mio, and she was determined to push hers as far away from her as possible, but through each other, we were able to find friendship, comfort, and release.
She became my lover, and while our physical connection was there, as was our friendship, there was no further emotional connection. Neither of us wanted to pursue a relationship. We were content in our physical arrangement and used each other as such.
There were no expectations or hopes.
And while I was able to find release when I had sex with Rosie, the hunger to seek pleasure in my dominant side with Rosie was lacking.
Almost as though that side of me was completely reserved for the one person I couldn’t share it with.
I almost died.
The thought comes rushing back to me, reality sinking in further. By jumping in front of that bullet, I saved Rosie.
But did I save her?
“Mr. Lucchetti?” the kind nurse prods, her eyes sweeping over me with concern as I retreat back to the present from the recesses of my mind.
I attempt to clear my throat as I meet her gaze. “Rosie Adler. Is Rosie alive?”
“Mr. Lucchetti?—”
“I need to know she is safe.”
My nurse sighs deeply, setting the clipboard she’s holding down on the edge of my bed to scroll through the tablet she’s holding easier. “I will do my best to find out what I can about Miss Adler.”
I read between the lines, knowing there are legal guidelines for what she can and cannot tell me. “Please. I would like to see her and Cain Michaels. I need to know they’re safe.”
“I’ll do my best to reach them, Mr. Lucchetti. Now, can I get you anything in the meantime?”
“Water. Please.”
She nods. “I’ll be right back.”
Turning, she scurries from the room quickly, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.
Anguish pushes through the forefront of my emotions.
More memories of the barbecue come rushing back to me as I lay in the hospital bed and wait for the nurse or the doctor. The sickening crack of Rosie’s skull as it hit the pavement reverberates through my mind. Then, at the same moment, monumental pain erupted in my body. Everything fades after that—I must have gone unconscious.
My visions turn to images of my loved ones—Mamma, Papà, my brothers, Enzo, Sullivan, and Vincenza. I could have left this earth without seeing them again. Without speaking to them again. The thought causes a sharp pain in my chest.
Vincenza.
What I wouldn’t give to hold her in my arms and feel the softness of her skin against mine. To smell her sweet, cherry blossom scent.
My hand reaches to touch the cherry blossoms tattooed into my skin, and I hiss, the movement causing a searing pain from the trauma to my chest.
But it’s nothing compared to the gaping wound that the thought of leaving this world without seeing Vinnie one last time has reopened in my heart.
A knock sounds from the outside of my hospital room and seconds later, a doctor is pushing through the door, staring down at my chart. He’s a younger man, not much older than I am, if at all.
“Mr. Lucchetti. I’m Doctor Roan. How are you feeling?” he asks, looking me over, then looking at the machines I’m hooked up to.
“I’ve been better. What is the damage, amico?”
“Straight to the point,” he states. “I can respect that. The injuries you sustained weren’t as bad as they could have been. You’re very lucky. We were able to bring you in for surgery immediately upon your arrival and tend to the gunshot wound. You suffered a tension pneumothorax caused by fragments from the bullet, but they weren’t severe enough to need intervention—your lung should be healed on its own within the next week or two.”
As the doctor speaks, I drone out his voice. Easily, I could read my charts myself and understand exactly what my body has gone through and know what my recovery will entail, but I give the man the respect he deserves and appear to listen.
Truthfully, my thoughts are in two places at once. Here, in Ridgewood, wondering about the status of mia preferita, Rosie, and the man I now call my friend, her boyfriend, Cain. But they’re also across the country, in New York, with lingering memories of amore mio.
A weaker man would have broken down and contacted her by now, and perhaps I should allow myself to take on that title for the amount of times I’ve longed to reach out to her—the number of times I’ve looked up her name in the search engine of the web browser. Still, I’ve resisted.
Now I’ve almost lost my life, while a new beginning for hers looms closer.
Within a few weeks, Vincenza will become Mrs. St. Jean.
And that hurts worse than any gunshot wound ever could.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Lucchetti?” the doctor asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
Slowly, I reach up and adjust the nasal cannula resting in my nose. “How long until I can take this off? And the IVs.”
I already know the answer, but the doctor doesn’t know my background. No one in Ridgewood does. To the people I’ve crossed paths with during my time here, I’ve never confessed my knowledge of medicine. To them, I am just a man from New York, running to escape the pain of losing his love to another man.
“Let’s just take things day by day for now and see how you’re feeling. Your nurse will be back in shortly. Should anything emergent arise, I’ll be back. Otherwise, I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
I nod, laying my head against the pillow. Before I close my eyes, I say, “Thank you, Doctor.”
The soft click of the door upon his exit tells me I’m alone again, and this time, as I listen to the sounds of the machines and glue my eyes shut, I let myself experience all the pain—both physical and mental—knowing that it’s been too long since I’ve allowed myself to.