Chapter 37
Elena
Five days.
I've been in Marco's apartment for five days, and I still wake up every morning not knowing where I am. Still jolt awake in the middle of the night convinced I'm back in that cell. Still flinch when anyone moves too quickly in my peripheral vision.
Five days, and I'm not getting better.
I'm sitting on the couch, staring at the fiddle leaf fig Marco had brought from my apartment. It sits by the window where it'll get the best light. All my plants are here now—scattered throughout his living room and bedroom like he's trying to recreate my apartment within his own space.
The gesture should touch me. It does touch me. But it also makes everything worse because every time I look at them, I'm reminded that I can't go home. That my apartment is a crime scene. That the life I had before is gone.
The door opens and Rina walks in with Sofia and Gianna trailing behind her. They've been coming every day. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. Bringing food I don't eat, asking questions I don't answer, sitting in silence because they don't know what else to do.
"Hey, cuz." Rina's smile is too bright. Too forced. "We brought lunch."
I nod but don't move from the couch.
Sofia sets bags on the kitchen counter while Gianna sits in the chair across from me. She looks like she wants to say something but doesn't know how.
"How are you feeling today?" Rina asks, settling onto the other end of the couch. Not too close. They've all learned to keep their distance.
"Fine."
"Elena—"
"I said I'm fine." My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
Rina exchanges a look with Sofia. I hate that look. The one that says she's not okay but we don't know what to do about it.
"Marco said you're not sleeping," Sofia ventures carefully.
"Marco talks too much."
"He's worried about you. We all are."
I don't respond. What am I supposed to say? That they should be worried? That I'm drowning and I don't know how to stop? That every time I close my eyes I see Ronan's face or feel phantom hands on my skin or wake up not remembering where I am?
"We want to help," Gianna says quietly. "Just tell us what you need."
"I need everyone to stop looking at me like I'm broken."
"We don't—"
"Yes, you do." I stand abruptly. The plants need water. I focus on that. Something concrete. Something I can control. "You all look at me like I'm fragile. Like I might shatter if someone says the wrong thing."
"That's not true," Rina protests.
But it is true. I can see it in all their faces. The careful way they speak to me. The way they avoid certain topics. The way they tiptoe around me like I'm a bomb that might explode.
I grab the watering can and start tending to the plants. The familiar routine soothes something in me. This I know how to do. This makes sense.
"Have you thought about talking to someone?" Sofia asks. "A therapist or—"
"No."
"Elena, what happened to you—"
"I don't want to talk about it." I pour water into the fiddle leaf fig's pot. Too much. I'm overwatering it. But I can't seem to stop. "Not to a therapist. Not to you. Not to anyone."
"Keeping it inside isn't healthy—"
"And talking about it is?" I whirl on her. Water sloshes over the edge of the can onto the hardwood floor. "Reliving it over and over? Telling some stranger about how I was drugged and raped and I can't even remember most of it? How is that supposed to help?"
The room goes silent.
I set down the watering can with shaking hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," Rina says firmly. "You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to feel however you feel."
But that's the problem. I don't know how I feel. Angry, yes. But also scared and ashamed and guilty and so many other things I can't name.
Guilty.
That's the one that keeps me up at night.
"I heard Marco on the phone yesterday," I say quietly. "Talking to Vito. About the war."
The women exchange glances again.
"Vito's ordered a full-scale attack on the Irish," I continue. My voice sounds distant. Detached. "He wants every single one of them dead. Because of what they did to me."
"Elena—" Rina starts.
"How many people are going to die because of me?" The question comes out broken. "How many bodies are going to pile up because I was stupid enough to get taken?"
"This isn't your fault," Sofia says fiercely.
"Isn't it? If I hadn't gone to my apartment that day—if I hadn't made Rina force Dante to take me—if I'd just listened when Marco said it wasn't safe—"
"Stop." Rina's voice cuts through my spiral. "You didn't ask to be kidnapped. You didn't ask to be raped. And you sure as hell didn't start this war. The Costellos did that when they came after our family."
"But people are dying—"
"People were always going to die. This has been building for months. What happened to you was just the final straw." She moves closer but doesn't touch me. "You don't get to carry that guilt, Elena. It's not yours to carry."
But it feels like mine. Everything feels like mine—the weight of it crushing me from all sides.
"They're still alive," I whisper. "Ronan and my father. They're in cells somewhere waiting for me to... what? Decide what happens to them? I don't even know what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"You don't have to do anything until you're ready," Gianna says.
"But when will I be ready? How am I supposed to face them when I can barely face myself?"
No one has an answer for that.
They stay for another hour. We eat lunch—or rather, they eat while I push food around my plate. They talk about inconsequential things, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But nothing feels normal anymore.
When they finally leave, I'm exhausted. Not from activity but from the effort of pretending I'm okay. Of holding myself together when all I want to do is fall apart.
Marco comes home around six. He's been leaving during the day to handle business but always comes back before dark. Like he doesn't trust me to be alone after the sun goes down.
He's probably right not to.
"Hey." He sets his keys on the counter. "The girls came by?"
"Yeah."
"You eat?"
"Some."
He doesn't call me on the lie. Just goes to the kitchen and starts pulling out ingredients for dinner.
"You don't have to cook for me," I tell him.
"I know."
But he does anyway. Like he has every night. Making sure I eat at least one proper meal a day even when I don't want to.
I watch him move around the kitchen—comfortable and confident in a way I'm not sure I'll ever feel again. He's been so patient with me. So careful. Giving me space when I need it but staying close enough that I know he's there.
And I hate it. Hate that I need him to be careful with me. Hate that I can't just be normal around him.
Hate that I want him to touch me but my body won't let him.
We eat in silence. Or he eats while I pick at my food.
"Rafa identified two more Costello locations," Marco says. "We're moving on them tomorrow."
More death. More violence. More blood on my hands.
"Vito wants to know if you're ready to give a statement," he continues. "About what happened. For the family records."
"No."
"Elena—"
"I said no." My fork clatters against the plate. "I'm not ready to talk about it. I don't know if I'll ever be ready to talk about it."
Marco nods slowly. "Okay. I'll tell him."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. You say you're not ready, then you're not ready." He takes my plate even though I've barely touched the food. "No one's going to force you."
But it feels like they are. Like everyone's waiting for me to get better. To be ready. To make decisions about Ronan and my father and everything else.
And I don't know how to tell them that I might never be ready.
That night, I can't sleep. Again.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. In that cell. In that warehouse. Feeling things I can't remember but know happened.
Around two a.m., I give up trying. I slip out of bed and pad through the apartment. Marco's asleep, his breathing deep and even.
I should wake him. But I don't want to be managed right now. Don't want him watching me with those concerned eyes.
I make my way into the living room, as far away from Marco's bedroom as possible. I step towards the floor to ceiling windows. We're up so high. The city sprawls below me—millions of lights twinkling in the darkness. From up here, everything seems small. Manageable.
From up here, I can almost pretend I'm okay.
My breathing picks up. The panic starts creeping in at the edges—that familiar tightening in my chest that means I'm about to lose it.
I pace. Back and forth. Trying to outrun the feeling. But it follows me. Closes in.
"Elena."
I spin around. Marco's there. Must have woken up and found me gone.
"I couldn't sleep," I say quickly. "I wasn't—I'm fine."
He takes a step closer and I take a step back. "Don't."
"I'm not going to—"
"Just don't!" My voice is too loud. Too shrill. "Don't come closer. Don't ask if I'm okay. Don't—"
He reaches for me—instinct, concern—and something in me snaps.
I shove him. Hard. "I said don't touch me!"
But he's not touching me anymore. He stepped back immediately. And now I can't stop.
I hit his chest with my fists. Not hard enough to hurt. Just needing to make contact. To expel this energy building inside me.
And the moment one fist collides with his chest, I can't stop. It's the first real touch I've had since that cell. And even in its violence, I crave it, even as I loath myself for it.
"I hate this!" Each word is punctuated by my hands against his chest. "I hate feeling like this! I hate that I can't let you touch me! I hate that I'm broken and scared and I can't even—"
My voice breaks. The hits become weaker. Less controlled.
"I want you to hold me," I sob. "I want to let you hold me but I can't. My body won't let me. And I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to get back to—"
I'm gasping now. Crying so hard I can barely breathe.
And Marco doesn't pull away. Doesn't try to grab me or restrain me.
He just stands there. Taking it. Letting me get it out.
"I want to be normal again," I whisper. "I want to let you touch me. Want to not flinch every time someone moves too fast. Want to sleep through the night without waking up terrified."
My legs give out. I collapse against him—not intentionally, just because I can't hold myself up anymore.
And Marco catches me.
His arms wrap around me carefully. Giving me a chance to pull away. To tell him no.
But I don't.
I let him hold me. For the first time since he found me in that cell, I let him hold me.
The panic doesn't come. The urge to flinch away doesn't come. It's just... Marco. Solid and warm and safe.
I sob into his chest, my hands clutching his shirt. Five days of holding it together. Five days of pretending I'm fine. It all comes out in broken gasps and tears that won't stop.
"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you, baby."
"I'm sorry," I hiccup. "I'm so sorry—"
"Shh. You have nothing to apologize for."
"I hit you—"
"I can take it. Hit me as much as you need to."
"I'm broken, Marco. They broke me and I don't know how to—"
"You're not broken." His voice is fierce. Certain. "You're hurting. There's a difference."
"But what if I can't—what if this is who I am now—"
"Then I love who you are now." The words are soft. Final. "I love you, Elena. However long this takes. Whatever healing looks like. I love you."
I freeze. Pull back just enough to see his face.
He means it. I can see it in his eyes.
"You love me," I repeat. Not a question. Just trying to make the words real.
"I love you. I'm in love with you. Have been for a while now." His hand comes up to cup my face—gentle, asking permission. When I don't pull away, he wipes my tears with his thumb. "And nothing that happened changes that. Nothing they did to you could ever change that."
Fresh tears spill over. But these feel different. Less like despair and more like... hope, maybe. Or relief.
"I love you," I whisper. "I didn't want to. Tried not to. But I do."
He kisses my forehead. Just that—nothing more. Respecting my boundaries even now.
"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get you back to bed."
He keeps his arm around me as we walk back to the bedroom. And I let him. Lean into him even.
It's not everything. It's not magically fixed. I'm still broken and scared and drowning.
But for the first time in five days, I feel like maybe I won't drown alone.
Maybe that's enough. For now.