Chapter 29 You’re A Survivor
You’re A Survivor
Sorry it took longer than normal for me to reply. There are things I can no longer tell you. It pains me to keep secrets from you. — Mi dispiace, Enzo
Enzo
I get Izzy comfortable in my bed and then head to the kitchen to prepare her a sandwich to go with her antibiotics. The doctors warned that she needs to eat light meals to begin with.
Doc’s staying in one of my empty apartments so he’s on standby if she needs anything.
Returning, I find her shifting uncomfortably, wincing as she does. She looks so fragile in my big bed, her shoulder wrapped in a sling.
Her face lifts to me as I enter, the jagged cut down her face angry and red. It will scar. A constant reminder of her pain. I hate that.
I'm at her side in two strides, ready to help her with whatever her trouble is. “Hey, what’s wrong? What can I do?”
She grumbles. “I want to sit up.”
I run into the spare room, grabbing some extra pillows to place behind her.
“Better?”
She nods. “Thank you.”
I place the sandwich down in front of her, then a glass of water and her medication on the nightstand before joining her. I’m careful not to jostle the bed too much with my weight.
She eats in silence.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, hesitant. She hasn’t spoken about what happened with Marcus and Lucas other than when the doctor initially spoke with her.
She shrugs, then groans in pain. “I don’t know.”
I nod, not wanting to push her.
“It was scary,” she whispers, as if saying the words too loud would make them real.
I hold my breath, not speaking, letting her take charge.
“The knife, the gun—I was helpless. Just like before.”
“You’re not helpless, Iz,” I tell her, interjecting. “You’re a survivor.”
She huffs. “Yeah.”
She finishes her food, then gulps down the water with her antibiotics and painkillers.
“I want to make them pay,” she says, her voice soft but words lethal.
“We will.”
“When?”
“Once you’re better.”
Izzy screws her face up at that, but she doesn’t argue. She can’t. There’s nothing she can do until her injuries heal.
We spend the rest of the day in bed, chatting, watching films, just existing, healing.
The next day is much the same.
And the next.
Each day I change her dressing, make her food, give her various pills, then we watch films to pass the time.
Dante has stepped up in my absence, commanding our men, keeping the businesses running smoothly. Without him and Papa’s support I don’t know where I’d be.
After a week, Izzy is growing frustrated at not being allowed to wash properly. I’ve been helping her sponge bathe, just to keep her hygienic but nothing that could get the wound wet.
While Izzy’s asleep I call Doctor Morgan’s number. I dug into her when she stumbled upon one of Carina’s crime scenes. I needed dirt on her in case she ever betrayed us. All I found was that her girlfriend had a record. Not that I think she knew that. Luckily, it’s never been needed.
The phone rings a few times before it connects.
“Hello?” she answers, suspicion in her tone.
“Is this Doctor Emily Morgan?”
There’s a moment of hesitation.
“This is she.”
“It’s Enzo… Lorenzo Russo.”
Silence.
“I… Okay. Um… What can I… Um… What can I do for you?” She stumbles over her words. Can’t really blame her, given our last interaction.
“I need a favor.”
“A favor?” She sounds incredulous.
“Therapy.”
I swear she laughs, but it’s too quiet to hear properly. “For yourself?”
“No. My girl.”
“Right. Okay. Where are you? I’m no longer in Italy, I’m at a practice in London.”
“Can you do video? We’re in New York.”
More silence.
“Right. I can probably work something out. I assume this would be off record?”
Smart girl.
“That would be preferable.”
“Okay. Okay. I can do Tuesday evenings at 7p.m.? What’s that for you guys?”
I do the mental math.
“2p.m.”
“Does that work?”
It’s Tuesday already, so that gives another week. “Yes.”
“Okay.” She pauses. “Anything else?”
“No. I’ll text you the details.”
“Okay. No prob–”
I hang up, hearing Izzy moving around.
Back in my room, I find her out of bed.
I rush over to her. “Cuore mio, what are you doing? You need to rest.”
She glowers at me. “I’ve been resting. I need to get out of this room.”
Placing an arm around her waist, careful not to touch her shoulder, I help her into the living room. “Stay here. This is as far as you’re going.”
She goes to argue, but then her face twists in pain and she shuts her mouth.
I can see how much effort it took her just to walk this far—sweat beads on her brow, and her eyelids are already drooping.
I cover her in a blanket, then head to the kitchen to fetch her something to drink, but by the time I’m back she’s already asleep again.
It takes Izzy another few days before she’s able to move without pain. If she twists wrong, then she grunts, gritting her teeth as if she can hide it from me.
Today, after spending some time in my office, getting caught up on missed work, I find her in the kitchen. Her back is to me as she tries to stretch to reach the glass cupboard. As soon as she does, she cries out in pain.
I’m at her side in an instant.
“Let me help you.”
She rests her head on my chest as she breathes through the discomfort. “I’m useless.”
“No.” I tilt her chin up gently, forcing her to look at me. “You’re doing amazing.”
“Of course you think that,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
“Because I love you?”
Her breath catches. “Say it again.”
I grin down at her. “I love you.”
She sighs, closing her eyes then reopening them, smirking. “Once more?”
“If you weren’t injured, I’d take you over my knee for being a brat.”
Her lips part, eyes flashing with heat.
“Now’s the part where you admit how much you love me too,” I coax.
She pushes away from me, rounding the kitchen counter. She doesn’t speak until she’s almost out of the room, tossing the words over her shoulder. “I love you more than anything.”
I groan, relishing the sound of those words on her lips—and they’re directed at me. How did I get so lucky?
Izzy
The bathroom fills with steam as Enzo runs me a bath—finally.
It’s been eight days since I first woke up in the hospital.
Recovering has been awful. The pain in my shoulder is finally subsiding, it’s still there, but not as constant.
I can wash again, thank God. I feel disgusting, having only been allowed hygiene washes.
I still can’t get the bullet wound wet, so it’s wrapped in plastic wrap to keep it dry.
In front of me, my reflection glares back at me. The ugly scar on my cheek mocks me. Now, even if the internal scars heal, I’ll always have this reminder of Lucas—of Marcus.
Enzo holds out a hand to me, helping me out of the chair where I’ve been sitting patiently waiting for him.
“Do you find me ugly now?” I ask him, holding my breath. He hasn’t mentioned the scar that runs from just below my eye to my chin. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed it.
He looks at me as if I’m stupid. “Why would I ever think you’re ugly?”
I motion weakly to my face.
He slowly unbuttons the shirt I’m wearing, letting it slip slowly from my shoulder until I’m naked in front of him.
His eyes heat, roaming over my exposed flesh, but he does nothing but lead me to the bath, helping me to climb in and sit down, avoiding submerging too much.
“You are—and always have been—the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Isolde Romano. Nothing—and I mean nothing—could ever change that.”
The tension inside me dissipates.
“Join me?” I ask, placing a hand on his wrist before he can move away.
He hesitates.
“Please?” I widen my eyes, jutting out my bottom lip.
He sighs, but then strips off his clothes, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of him—every lean muscle, that V, his perfect cock.
“My eyes are up here, Iz.” He laughs. “Stop looking at me like I’m a piece of meat.”
My face heats.
“Scoot forward,” he instructs.
Once I do, he carefully climbs into the bath behind me.
I lean against his chest, loving the way his skin feels against mine. He’s tense, clearly worried he’ll hurt me. I know he never would.
After we soak for a while, neither of us breaking the silence of the moment, he lathers up a sponge, then begins running it over my lower arms, then my chest, my stomach.
He cleans between my thighs, and I can’t help my moan as he brushes my clit. He freezes.
“Iz—”
“Enzo,” I whimper. “Please.”
“What do you need?”
“Touch me.”
His muscles tense beneath me. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“The only way you’ll hurt me is by stopping.”
He groans. But then he drops the sponge, tracing his fingers over my skin.
He runs one over my slit, not touching me where I want it, just teasing. I exhale shakily, anticipation curling in my gut. Gooseflesh pebbles my skin despite the heat of the water.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “Please.”
He finds my clit, feeling how wet I am. His deep moan rumbles in my ear.
He pushes a finger inside me, and I whimper. Another finger, another cry escapes my lips.
“This what you needed, Cuore mio? You needed me to touch you? To make you feel good?” Enzo murmurs, speaking low, directly into my ear.
I can’t speak, just nod as pressure builds.
His thumb circles my clit with the exact right amount of pressure, while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect spot.
My body trembles in his arms as my orgasm takes over until I sag against him, spent and sated.
We don’t speak again, not until he’s helped me out of the bath and tucked me back into bed—he’s so protective, not letting me overdo it. I’m not sure if I love it or hate it.
It feels as though all he’s done since I found him again is look after me. Forever my comfort, my safety.
Exhaustion pulls at me, and I let it, succumbing to the embrace of darkness. My dreams, thankfully, are filled with Enzo, and our childhood.