2. Chapter Two
2
Luca
Somebody stop that damn ringing.
The nightstand was also vibrating, so it must be phone this time and not the near-constant humming in the back of my skull. I risked a spear of sunlight and cracked an eyelid to see who was calling.
Julian. Again.
Groggily, I swung my arm across the nightstand and knocked the phone onto the floor. It lay there chirping merrily up at me, but at least it was muffled now. I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to muster up enough enthusiasm to get up for the day. It was already...well, who the fuck cared what time it was? It wasn't like I had any place to be. I hadn’t been able to hold down a single job for more than a month or two since my little ‘accident.’
My apartment wasn't big, but it was spacious for a one bedroom in the North End. Rent wasn't an issue for me, because once a month like clockwork, the family deposited enough money to cover rent and then some. Moretti soldiers wounded in the line of duty were taken care of for life, and the irony of my situation was not lost to me. I'd nearly laughed myself hysterical when that first paycheck had arrived, wondering what Lorenzo would say if he knew I'd been shot betraying him.
No, not Lorenzo. Sal, I reminded myself. Lorenzo was dead. So was Angel.
Dead, dead, dead.
I wasn't, though. The best surgeons in Boston had seen to that, for all the good it had done me. I might have survived, but the man I had been was long gone. He died in the alley that night.
The ringing stopped, and I closed my eyes again. Maybe Julian would take the hint and give up on me.
One could only hope.
I dozed a little more until my bladder couldn't be ignored any longer. With a sigh, I hauled myself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, although I had managed to kick off my shoes before passing out, so mark that down in the win category. Closing my eyes against a wave of dizziness, I leaned my forearm against the bathroom wall to take a piss.
I was still in that position when my phone started ringing again. I left it where it was. Then I washed my hands and padded out into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the mirror’s reflection.
I remembered almost nothing from the day I got shot. Emilia and her one true love Alfie Doyle had come up with a wild but plausible plan to escape the mafia life with their Romeo and Juliette romance intact by faking their deaths, but the plan had gone south. Instead, a gunfight broke out between us and the Irish, leaving two injured and me fighting for my life after a bullet ricochetted off the alley’s brick wall and into my skull.
The bullet entered on an upward angle through my left cheekbone and left fragments in my brain. And bonus points, because a bullet plowing through your grey matter wasn’t bad enough, cavitation damaged my optic nerve and put my lights out on the left side for good. A craniotomy had been performed to relieve the pressure on my brain and stop the bleeding, but even after they put me back together, my Humpty-Dumpty ass was on a ventilator and being fed through a tube for the next several months.
A severe TBI, or traumatic brain injury, was what they called it. Glasgow coma scale of six, recovery dubious at best. I could recite my medical record like a book, but even now, it felt like it had happened to someone else. A horrible nightmare, yet one I was still stuck in. That line of bullshit about people in comas being able to feel and hear the people they loved was just that—bullshit. It was like I’d lost days stuck on repeat with only vague scents and color blooms spiraling in a terrifying whirlwind, only for my eyes to finally open one day and everybody start telling me how lucky I was.
I got real tired of that real fucking fast. How lucky I was. What a miracle . It sure didn’t feel like a miracle when I’d lost a third of my body weight and couldn’t walk. Or speak. Or feed myself.
Then came several rounds of plastic surgery to repair the damage caused by the brick wall fragments that had peppered my face along with the bullet. As if having my brains scrambled wasn’t enough. Corneal scratching to my useless left eye left it cloudy and ghoulish, and residual scarring pulled my mouth up into a sneer, but hey—I was lucky .
So goddamn lucky.
I stopped them after the third surgery. I couldn’t take it anymore. The pain, the humiliation of having your bodily functions being tended to by someone else. Starting back from square one every time. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men were not going to be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, and the sooner I swallowed that bitter pill down, the better. No more surgeries. Not for vanity’s sake. I knew when to call it quits.
So, I agreed to whatever the hell I needed to so I could get out of there. Physical and occupational therapy? Check. A shrink to help with my raging mood swings? Check. A nurse to stop by once a day and make sure I hadn’t seized and drowned in the bathtub? Check.
Check, check, check.
Through it all, Sofia never left my side. That crazy little party girl had grown up in the blink of an eye, and I hated that I had been the cause of that loss of innocence. She asked the questions I was too cowardly to ask and shored me up when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore.
And a tiny little part of me resented her for that. I resented her courage and her patience, and while she never once told me how lucky I was or how grateful I should be I could still see the pity that she tried so hard to hide. The disappointment. What a burden I’d become.
One by one, the guys stopped calling. Stopped caring. Especially once I moved out of the compound. I didn’t blame them. In the beginning when recovery is a fresh, shiny new concept, that’s when it’s the easiest to stand on the sidelines and cheer. But as the weeks and the months wear on and it becomes apparent that the new normal is going to look a little different than everyone thought, then see how many people are left rooting you on from the sidelines. It’s far easier to pretend this face doesn’t exist than to look at it every day, but so far, Sofia had been the exception to the rule. Even then, it had taken a herculean effort to cut her visits back to once a week. Sofia was thriving, graduated from college and living her dream, and I refused to be the anchor tied around her neck.
Eyeing the coffee machine, I swallowed past a wave of nausea. Damn, I missed coffee. My stomach had been messed up ever since the feeding tube.
Breakfast for me was a smorgasbord of pills washed down with a vanilla protein shake. It was all I could stomach lately. I had to keep my weight up, which was no easy feat. After I'd gotten out of the hospital, I'd had a hard time regaining all the weight I’d lost. I'd been a big guy before getting shot, but now I felt gaunt, my cheeks hollow, my eyes sunken, a scraggly growth of beard because I still didn’t have the coordination to shave properly. A skeletal scarecrow. Avoiding the mirror was my favorite pastime, right up there with avoiding any human interaction. The internet and home delivery were wonderful inventions, and so far I'd been able to avoid everybody except Sofia.
And now Julian, apparently.
Fumbling for my phone beneath the bed, I risked a peek at my phone after the last call went to voicemail. Four missed calls from Julian. Despite my aversion to interaction, a thin line of worry zinged through my veins. What if he was calling about something important? What if something happened to the family? To Sofia?
Maybe I should call him back, I thought.
No. If something had happened to her, Julian wouldn't call. He'd come over. He knew how important she was to me. Everything was fine. Julian was just doing his duty and checking up on me. It was an annoying habit that luckily most of the family seemed to lose over time, but Julian was one of the few holdouts. Aside from Sofia, of course.
Skirting the broken…something on the floor—what was that, a lamp? I didn’t remember knocking that over—I sat on the couch and flipped on the TV, but nothing held my interest. I scrolled through the guide and settled on the weather. I didn't have the focus to concentrate on anything more intricate this morning. It was already past noon, and I hadn't showered yet. Just being upright at this time of day was considered a victory lately, so I decided to let myself off easy. I was just dozing off again when my buzzer sounded.
Shit. I'd forgotten I had a food delivery today.
"Just leave it at the front door," I growled into the intercom. I rarely left the apartment these days and had my groceries delivered directly to my door.
"Luca? It's...um, it's Sofia."
My heart thumped painfully. What the hell was she doing here? It wasn't Friday—wait. Was it?
I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose against the headache that threatened. No, it wasn't Friday; I had a repeating alarm set for our weekly meetings at the coffee shop down the block. I had difficulty remembering little things like that now, and I hated being so goddamn dependent on it for everything.
"What do you want?" I cringed at the sound of my own voice. Smooth, asshole.
"I'm sorry," she said, and I could hear her shuffling her feet. "I shouldn't have come by without calling first, but I really wanted to see you."
Her words ignited a thrill in my chest that morphed into an embarrassing horror at the thought of her seeing me like this. I had enough sense left to know how bad I looked, or—Jesus Christ—how bad my apartment must look to an outsider. Then, of course, there was also the evidence of my little temper problem. I'd been too tired to clean up after the last takeout binge slash hulk smash rage-fest, and the stench of old food hung the air, smashed shit all over the place.
"I...I don't think that's such a good idea, Sofia. I'm really not up for visitors right now."
"Please, I really need to talk to you. It won't take long."
Her voice sounded tinny on the intercom, but it still drove a nail straight into my gut. I should send her away. She didn't deserve this—she thought she was actually helping me. That I was back on my feet, and all I needed was a little time before I would bounce right back to the old Luca. What a fucking joke.
Sorry, sweetheart, that man is dead and buried.
Her faith in me was both humbling and heartbreaking. I couldn't leave her standing on the sidewalk. If I turned her away, it would hurt her. She'd worry that something was really wrong.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the front door. Goddamnit. "All right, I'll be down in a minute."
It was the best I could think of at the time. There was no way in hell I was going to let her see my apartment the way it was. Deflect and disguise, that’s what I did best. Moving as quickly as I could, I pawed through the clothes on the floor for something slightly less stained and rumpled than what I was wearing. A quick sniff test, and I opted for some cologne. A shower was going to have to wait. I ran a brush through my hair and washed my face, carefully avoiding the gnarled mass of scars covered by beard scruff in the mirror. My self-esteem was already low, and I needed to put on a convincing act for Sofia.
As I rushed out the front door, I wondered why I even bothered. Why her? It’s not like we had much in common, there were eight years between us. I’d practically watched her grow up, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to say Sofia was like a sister to me, I’d only ever felt a familial love and protection for her. Of course, back then, I’d only had eyes for Emilia, as misplaced as that little infatuation was. Always on the fringes, Sofia never registered much to me until I was flat on my back in a hospital bed, and she was my only lifeline.
The Florence Nightingale Effect. That’s what they called it. I shook my head in disgust. Of course I’d developed a little bit of a crush on the one person who’d shown me kindness when I’d been at my lowest. Kindness, affection…love. These weren’t things I was used to receiving without a price. My parents had done a bang-up job of teaching me that before life had finished the lesson. It was painfully obvious why I would latch onto the person who’d thrown me a line when I’d been drowning.
Of course, I’d also have to be dead not to notice how Sofia had blossomed seemingly overnight. Or notice her kind compassion with which she’d cared for my grumpy, reluctant ass.
Sofia had been doggedly persistent all through my hospitalization and recovery, and that hadn’t changed once I moved out of the compound. Maybe it was because she was the only person who hadn't written me off as a lost cause, including myself.
Or maybe it was because she was a pretty girl, and I was just a lonely, horny guy.
When I got to the landing, Sofia was waiting for me. She looked just as beautiful as the last time I had seen her. So damn grown up. Her dark hair was pulled back into a knot at the base of her neck that made her look professional and sophisticated. Between the hairstyle and the way her generous curves filled out the jeans she wore, Sofia looked less like the little girl I remembered and more like the breathtaking woman she had grown into.
I wasn't sure if I liked that. I didn’t want to be attracted to her, but all I could think about was pulling that tie loose and running my fingers through the softness of her hair. Touch the pad of my finger to the bow of her bottom lip and feel her smile.
"Hey." Sofia's hesitant smile faltered when she saw me, and my eyes dropped to the ground in shame. What the hell was I doing? Sofia was way too young for me and my friend's kid sister to boot. I had no business thinking about her curves or how beautiful she looked. Especially when I looked like a set extra from The Walking Dead. The later seasons, when the zombies really started to look rough.
Sofia recovered quickly and she came in for a hug, but I managed to duck it by pretending to check my phone. I couldn't stand the thought of her seeing me like this, let alone touching me.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, dropping her arms back to her sides. She bit her lip and looked away, then looked back at me with a determined expression. "I know you said you didn't want me to visit, but I needed to see you."
I jerked my head in the direction of the coffee shop we usually went to. Sofia followed, one hand holding an umbrella over our heads and the other hooked through my arm. My muscles went rigid at her touch, but I tried not to shrink away from her this time. At least she had the grace to pretend the gesture was friendly and not that she was trying to keep my ass from slipping on the slick sidewalk and falling. My injury had left me with the balance of a ninety-year-old, and the right side of my body was still weak.
The coffee shop was only couple blocks away, but the distance seemed to stretch into miles. Damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit physical therapy. By the time we reached the door, I was clinging to Sofia and drenched in sweat with the effort of trying to walk normally. At least I could at least pretend it was from the rain.
The cafe was warm and bright, but the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods made my stomach turn. Sofia pulled out a chair at a table by the window. I sat across from her and casually scrubbed my hand through my chin-length hair, pretending to shake the rain from it, but really I was combing it over the ruined left side of my face so the poor girl wouldn't have to look at it. That would be enough to put anybody off their food.
"What'll you have?" she asked, sliding a menu towards me. "I'm buying."
I shook my head. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to."
I knew better than to argue with her. Sofia was the most stubborn person I'd ever known. A true Italian firebrand.
"Just a coffee. Black," I said. My stomach would just have to deal with it. Food was a no-go right now, but at least the coffee might wake me up.
Sofia nodded and walked to the counter to order. I watched her go, admiring the sway of her hips and the way her tight jeans hugged her ass. What the hell—I was disfigured, not dead. I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell with her, anyway. I might as well enjoy the view while I could.
"Thank you so much for meeting me," Sofia said after she returned with our coffees. "I'm so sorry—"
"Sofia, stop apologizing. You needed to see me. I'm here." I sighed heavily. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the four missed calls I had from your brother, would it?"
She smiled sheepishly. "Maybe. But I really did want to see you."
I spread my hands. "Here I am, in all my glory. What do you need? Or, should I say, what does Julian need?"
Sofia took a deep breath and drummed her fingers on the table. She was nervous, not like herself at all. "It’s…the family. Julian needs your help."
Here we go. I sat back and folded my arms. "What kind of help?"
"He wants you to come back to the compound. The family’s in trouble, and Julian is trying to do something about it. Dante too, apparently. They need you, Luca."
I snorted. "Yeah, right. Not a single one of them need my useless ass hanging around."
"I do. I need you, Luca."
“This isn’t a pity party.”
“I know.”
“I’m just being realistic.”
“Okay, but still. You have value. You’re needed.” Sofia's voice was so soft, so earnest. I looked up and met her eyes, and my stomach did a weird little flip. She really believed that.
"That's because you're a nice person," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "You're too kind for your own good, Sofia."
She leaned forward and pinned me with the intensity of her stare. "This isn’t about your capabilities, it’s about our family. They’re in trouble, Luca. Julian's been trying to hold things together, but Sal is running them into the ground.”
I frowned. “What—they named Sal as the head of the family?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Julian would have mentioned it. He just said that Lorenzo's death left a power vacuum in North Boston, and everybody wants a piece of the pie. Julian thinks he can stabilize things, but he needs your help. The guys respect you—"
"The guys have lost all respect for me. I don't blame them."
"That's not true!" Sofia said heatedly. “They listen to you. If they saw you now, back on your feet after going through what you did...they'd think different, Luca."
"And then what? They all pat me on the back and say 'good job, buddy'? Go back to work like nothing ever happened? They don't need me there. I can't even hold a goddamn gun," I said bitterly, flexing my right hand. My right side was still weak, my coordination shot. It had taken me months just to learn to write again, and it still looked like a kindergartener’s scribblings.
Sofia reached across the table and laid her hand on mine. "I know it's hard, Luca, but Julian really needs you right now. If he says that you can help, you should hear him out. He's always had your back, and he has never asked for a thing in return."
It was hard to fight the slow churn of resentment at her words—she didn't know a damn thing about how hard it had been for me. The humiliation, the loss of my identity, my autonomy, huge chunks of time missing. The headaches and pain. Nausea and weakness. Dizzy spells that came out of nowhere. The perpetual mental fog that suffocated me more and more every day. I couldn’t keep a job, and I refused to be a burden to my friends or endure their pitying stares when they saw what was left of me.
But none of that was Sofia’s fault. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, staring down at our hands folded together. Sofia's delicate skin against my big, calloused paw. She didn't deserve my anger.
Who was I kidding? It wasn't really directed at her, anyway. It was directed at myself.
The truth was, Julian never should have had to ask for my help. The offer should have already been there. No strings attached, no re-payment for services rendered. Sofia was right; Julian had been better than a brother to me, and I couldn't remember a single time he'd asked anything of me. Resentment soured into shame. I'd become selfish in my isolation. A coward. And although I'd rather jab a fork in my remaining eye than show my face around the compound again, it sounded like Julian truly thought he needed my help, and he was just desperate enough to have Sofia ask on his behalf, because I refused to take his calls, holed up in my apartment wallowing in self-pity.
I sighed, resigned. "Okay. I'll go to the compound and meet with him."
Sofia smiled brightly, and my heart clenched. That single smile was worth knowing I was going to regret this. "Thank you, Luca. Really. Thank you."
"I haven't agreed to anything beyond that," I said gruffly, avoiding her eyes. "And I don't want you to get your hopes up, either. I can't promise Julian anything."
I was glad when she nodded, appeased, because my head was starting to ache. Between the effort it had taken to drag my sorry ass out of the hospital and the implications of a brewing power struggle at the compound, I was wiped. Sofia said it like it was some easy thing, turning the tide in Julian’s favor, but that wasn’t it. It wasn't just how the guys might react, it was Sal and the old guard Julian would have to convince. And if Sal was tapped by the dons down in Providence as Lorenzo's successor, I wouldn’t be able to do a thing to help him.
"Well, I need to get going," I said, standing up. My legs wobbled, but I managed to stand upright, though I could tell Sofia noticed.
She rose and came to me, pulling me into a tight embrace. I stiffened at her touch. Sofia was a tactile person, always had been. I had been too, once upon a time, but I was still uncomfortable in this clumsy new body of mine. Eventually she pulled back, and I was grateful that she didn't make a big deal of my reaction.
Instead, she leaned up and kissed my cheek. Her lips felt like fire against my skin, and I suddenly felt weary to the bone of the charade. "Thank you, Luca."
I nodded. I couldn't speak. I had to get out of there.
Sofia caught my arm as I turned to leave. “Wait—let me walk you home.”
“Rain’s stopped. I’ll be okay.”
I mustered up a smile and left her standing in the coffee shop, and I made my way back to my apartment through a choking mist that turned everything fuzzy. It was slow going; the sidewalk was slippery and my balance was terrible. By the time I reached the lobby, my head was pounding and nausea had me sweating and clenching my jaw against the urge to throw up. I took the stairs one at a time, gripping the railing for balance. I was so goddamn pathetic.
Sofia's visits were always the highlight of my week, but they left me exhausted for days. Pulling myself together enough to shore up a facade of normality was almost more than I could handle. The ice pick currently trying to drill through my left eye told me that the stress of her impromptu meeting today had pushed me over the edge and was in danger of triggering a migraine.
Shit. If I was this bad from a little surprise visit, how the hell was I going to make it at the compound?
I fumbled with my keys, then dropped them. The jangle was deafening. I picked them up with a shaking hand and opened the door to my apartment, swinging it shut behind me. The keys fell again, and I left them there.
I staggered to the bathroom.
Threw up in the toilet.
Fumbled for my meds and hoped I grabbed the right one.
Dry swallowed two.
Made it to the bed before collapsing, curling into the fetal position with a pillow over my head to block the light.
The last thought that went through my short-circuiting brain was the foggy concern that I hadn't locked the front door and the vague hope that maybe this time my head would finally split open and kill me.