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“He’s come to see you a few times, think he wants a pay rise.”
“He might just get one. And what about Emma?” I prompt, eager for more news.
“She’s fine, recovering. She’s strong, you know?” Jess’s eyes shine with admiration for her friend. “And there’s more. Garibaldi’s empire—it’s fallen apart. Turns out he was in deep debt to a Mexican cartel. That’s why he wanted you dead. To pay them back.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the turn of events. “Is he alive?”
Jess nods. “Was. After you left him, he tried to run to the cartel. They didn’t take kindly to his inability to repay in time. Called it an insult. Filmed his death, it’s been on the news.”
I let out a low whistle, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “Not all debts are paid in cash,” I muse aloud, the truth of the words settling deep within me.
“It’s over, Alessandro. Really over,” Jess says, her hand squeezing mine, a physical manifestation of our shared relief and forward-looking gaze. “No more threats.”
“All thanks to you,” I say, the weight of the past battles lifting, leaving room for the promise of peace, of a future filled with love, resilience, and shared triumphs. “If I never met you, I’d still be fighting him right now.”
She listens, her hand gently stroking mine, a silent support as I navigate through the memories.
I continue. “I used to believe strength was in control, in holding tightly to the reins. But you showed me it’s in the letting go, in trusting not just in myself, but in you, in us.”
Jess’s response is a soft squeeze of my hand, her smile telling me she remembers, too. “We’ve both grown, haven’t we?” she muses, a lightness in her voice that belies the depth of the journey we’ve shared.
“Yes, we have,” I agree, feeling a sense of pride in the adversity we’ve faced, the challenges we’ve turned into stepping stones towards a future we shape together. “You’ve opened my eyes to a world where strength is shared, not hoarded. Where love isn’t a weakness but our greatest strength.”
In the quiet of the hospital room, with the glow of the afternoon sun softening the clinical surroundings, I realize how far I’ve come from the man who thought he had all the answers. Jess, with her courage and unwavering faith, has been my teacher, my guide to a better version of myself.
“I’m grateful for you, Jess,” I say, the words inadequate to express the depth of my feelings. “For your patience, your love, and the lessons you’ve taught me without even realizing. And fuck me, your curves do things to me you don’t want to hear about right now.”
Her laugh, light and filled with warmth, fills the space between us. “We’re a team,” she replies, her gaze locked with mine. “And together, there’s nothing we can’t face.”
The doctor’s arrival breaks our bubble. He enters with a clipboard, his expression one of professional neutrality that does little to hide the undercurrent of concern. As he approaches, Jess’s hand tightens in mine.
“You got lucky,” the doctor starts, his gaze flickering from the chart to me. “But you’ll need to avoid strenuous exercise for a while. Your body needs time to heal.”
“Doc, I’m not used to sitting on the sidelines,” I admit, the frustration evident in my tone. “How am I supposed to just wait?”
His response is clinical, yet not without empathy. “Your body has been through a significant trauma. It’s not about what you’re used to; it’s about what’s necessary for healing.”
Jess squeezes my hand, her touch grounding. “We’ll find ways to keep you from going stir crazy,” she says, a gentle firmness in her voice that leaves no room for argument. “Besides, I think we could both use a little quiet after everything that’s happened.” She turns to the doctor. “I’ll make sure he rests, whether he wants to or not.”
Her words, and the unwavering support behind them, are a reminder that this recovery process isn’t just about me. It’s about us, about taking the time to heal not just physically, but emotionally.
I nod, acquiescing to the doctor’s orders and to Jess’s gentle insistence. “Okay,” I say, the word heavy with the realization of the challenge ahead. “We’ll do this your way.”
“I hate feeling trapped,” I admit, “like I’m caught in a situation I can’t shoot or strategize my way out of.”
Jess’s laughter, light and genuine, fills the room, momentarily pushing back against the clinical detachment. “Then think of this as a different kind of battle, one where patience and healing are your weapons. Besides, you’re not alone in this.”
As the doctor leaves, closing the door softly behind him, a silence falls over the room. In defiance of the doctor’s orders, driven by a need to feel her close, I gently pull her onto the bed beside me. Her laughter is a light in the sterile room, a reminder of all that we are to each other.
“Doc said nothing strenuous,” she chides, her voice laced with amusement and a hint of caution. It’s a reminder of the reality we’re navigating, a world where actions have consequences, where the physical and emotional are intricately linked.
“A kiss doesn’t count,” I argue, my words a playful challenge. It’s an invitation, a bridge between the seriousness of our situation and the intimacy that has always defined us. She looks at me, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of love and mischief.
As she leans in closer, I can smell the faint hint of her perfume mingling with the antiseptic scent of the hospital room. Her eyes are filled with unshed tears, emotions swirling beneath the surface.
I try to offer her a reassuring smile, but my body feels heavy with pain and exhaustion.
“I missed you,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. Jess’s lips quiver slightly before she presses them gently against mine. Her kiss is like a balm to my wounded soul, soothing away the ache that lingers deep within me.
