Chapter 17
Valentina Luciano
The rawness shining in Mario’s golden eyes reaches deep within my chest, and the tears dripping down my face become the overflow as he fills the well of my soul.
I’ll never be alone again. He’ll always be by my side.
I take a deep breath and savor the icy fury he feels on my behalf. He vows to avenge me without a word.
Exhaustion steals my energy and I drop my hand to the floor even though I long to cup his cheek and reenact the first time I explored his features with lips and tongue.
He worked so hard to help me feel better, but I destroyed all his efforts with my outburst.
My vision blurs as a cramp steals through my midsection. The sticky warmth between my legs paired with the metallic scent of blood makes me feel nauseous and dirty.
“I still want to shower,” I say.
“I still want to help you,” he responds.
Even though I trust him to the very depths of my soul, my body still quails at the thought of hands on me while it is so vulnerable and miserable.
The only option is to use him as a crutch. If he lifts, touches, or even reaches for me, I’ll swing the knife at him.
“Let me touch you,” I mumble, hoping he can decipher my disjointed answer.
I don’t know when my eyes closed, but they need a little while longer to rest before they’ll open.
After a few beats of my heart, he seems to understand.
“Whatever you need, paperotta . Sip some water, then rest while I prep the bath.”
“Not bath. Shower.”
He pauses at my demand, but grunts his understanding, offers me water, then plods into the bathroom. I don’t open my eyes until he returns.
He offers me his elbow. I take it and drag myself upright in semi-manageable increments. By the time I make it to my feet, my head spins and legs feel like jelly, but I cling to my husband’s arm and shuffle toward the bathroom.
Emotions clog my throat. Mario pinches the blanket closed around me without touching or pulling on my body while I remain preoccupied with staying upright with his arm in one hand and his knife in the other.
Goopy warmth slides down my legs, but he offers me as much dignity as possible with the blanket.
It isn’t until he guides me into the shower and drops the quilt to the bathroom floor that I realize I left a trail of smeared blood along the floor.
Mario doesn’t care. He doesn’t even look. His eyes stay locked on my face as he leads me to the towels spread over the tiled shower floor. Keeping his hands away from me, he helps me lower myself onto the towels by squatting, kneeling, and then joining me on the tiles beside the towels.
Hot water rains down on us, soaking our clothes in seconds. I sigh in relief as the heat seeps into my abdomen and soothes my cramping.
For a while, we lie without speaking as the rushing water echoes off the walls and steam fills the shower. The cloying scent of blood lingers in my nostrils even as the worst of the mess swirls down the drain.
Mario rises, soaps a loofah, moves the showerheads so they don’t spray directly on me, and then offers me the loofah.
I scrub my shorts and legs until white froth covers me from hips to toes.
He offers me a washcloth and takes the loofah. I run it over my neck and arms before slipping it under my shirt and cleaning my skin. Despite having already seen all of me, my husband doesn’t comment about my modesty.
When I deem myself soapy enough, he redirects the showerheads. I sigh and melt into the towels. If I could stay lying on the shower floor with hot water raining down on me for the next week, I would, but even if Mario let me, the water would run cold eventually.
He squats beside me and runs a hand through his wet hair.
If I weren’t on death’s door, I’d jump him.
I want to be the water droplet rolling down his chest.
He cocks his head, growls, and braces his forearms on his thighs.
“Careful, paperotta . I’m hanging on by a thread,” he threatens.
I sigh and close my eyes.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
The patter of hot water against my torso weaves a spell around me, and I inch toward sleep.
His low, imploring voice pulls me awake.
“You’re not well, Valentina. Let me schedule you an appointment at the finest clinic in New York City and—”
“No. No doctor’s office. He always made it too humiliating. I can’t,” I insist.
“Alright, paperotta . No doctor’s office.” He gives in too easily, and I’m glad because I’m too tired to fight. “Let’s get you dry and into bed,” he says as he turns off the shower.
“No bed. Too far. Too messy,” I say.
He stares at me as though my words prove his point about visiting the doctor, but when I don’t budge, he sighs, strips down to his underwear, and drapes a warm, dry towel over me before turning and stalking from the room.
I blink in amusement when he returns with a stack of weatherproof cushions from outdoor furniture. There must be a deck or patio somewhere, but all I’ve seen is what I glimpsed while he carried me from the front door to the bedroom. The place seems like a maze.
As he creates a makeshift mattress beside the soaking tub, the scars on his back gleam an angry red. Swollen all over from the hot water, his entire back is the picture of pain.
Guilt and an odd sense of wonder flows through me.
My big, bad mafia man put his needs and comfort aside to care for me. It’s a surreal thought. Seeing it in the flesh is even more bizarre.
He double stacks the cushions, alternating their directions so they interlock together, making the most elaborate temporary bed I’ve ever seen.
When he builds a simpler version with the sheets from the bed beside the first, tears scratch the back of my eyes.
He steps into the bedroom for a moment and returns with three black plastic grocery bags.
He sets them down by the door of the shower and kneels beside me to offer his elbow.
I take it and groan as I sit up. With unwavering patience, he lets me use his shoulder for balance as I pivot and lean back against the bench.
“I wasn’t sure what you needed, so I had someone bring some things by earlier,” he explains with a gesture to the bags.
Shock flows through me when he lifts packet after packet of different styles of feminine pads out of the first bag.
“Don’t tell me you had the kid shop for all this,” I say.
The thought fills me with mortification, but when he begins displaying the items from the second bag, I know without a doubt a man did not do the shopping. These were chosen with insight only a woman would have.
Delight swims in my husband’s amber eyes. I bite back a smile.
He’s so easy to please. Even though his consigliere looks about the same age as I am, I’ll happily call Noah the kid if it means enjoying Mario’s response.
But I won’t be the one to cause strife between him and his right-hand man. My husband deserves all the support in the world, so I’ll happily humor him.
“Noah dropped them off, but no, he didn’t buy them. Donna did,” he says.
“My bodyguard?”
He grunts his confirmation.
I point to the products I want. Mario places them into a neat row on the shower threshold and stuffs the rest into the sacks and pushes them aside.
He pulls several towels out of the closet and sets them on the bench behind me.
When I struggle with my wet clothes, he helps tug the fabric off without touching me.
Half an hour later, I cling to Mario’s arm as I stumble over the shower threshold in an oversized t-shirt, comfortable panties, and an overnight pad.
Too tired to brush my hair, I settle onto the cushions and drop into darkness.
Mario rouses me throughout the night to take medicine and sip water, and I wake him three times for help to the toilet, but it’s the best sleep I’ve had during my menses since my first terrible one.
Time blurs together. Pain ebbs and flows but never fully leaves despite the steady supply of medicine.
When my flow finally slows enough for me to feel comfortable sleeping in the bed instead of on the bathroom floor, Mario changes the sheet and helps me switch locations.
For another untraceable length of time, he upholds his promise and stays by my side without touching me.
Several times I wake in a cold sweat to his voice coaxing me from a nightmare. He becomes the first one I seek when I open my eyes. He’s the last one I want to see when I go to bed. I don’t know how I survived without him, and I never want to be apart from him again.
When I wake alone for the first time in what feels like months but is surely only a handful of days, sadness wells up in me.
But not loneliness. Even without him by my side, I know I’ll never be truly alone ever again. No matter what happens, he’ll always find me.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. I slip my hand under my pillow and hold my breath, but my weak body rebels, so I inhale and exhale as normally as I can.
Pure terror threatens to consume me even though I’m not asleep as the heavy footfalls walk down the hall toward me. Mario appears in the doorframe.
I blow out the breath trapped in my lungs.
“You scared me,” I accuse.
He lifts a brow, lowers his gaze to the tray in his hands, then pierces me with mischievous golden irises.
“I guess I’ll enjoy this by myself, then,” he threatens.
My mouth waters. I almost drool.
Coffee, pastries, eggs, bacon, and other delicious food fills the tray.
My empty stomach gurgles as though on cue.
Deciding to wield the truth instead of my knife, I press a hand to my stomach and meet his eyes.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him with as little coyness as I can manage.
He chuckles and strides into the room.
After sharing breakfast in bed and washing up in the restroom, I hook my hand into the crook of his arm and let him lead me to the office.
He settles me on the upholstered chair and takes a manilla envelope from the safe.
“In case the worst happens, everything I have is yours,” he says as he places it on my lap.
I blink down at it and shake my head.
“I have nothing to give you,” I whisper.