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She grins. “Well, I hope so for your sake. Let me take a look at you. I’ve heard a lot about you from Salvatore. It’s nice to meet you. Lorenzo said the bullet didn’t enter and he didn’t feel any broken bones, but sometimes it’s hard to tell.” She moves her fingers over the wound at my shoulder, then my face, gently prodding and pressing and moving down my face slowly until she’s assessed every inch.
“You should see the other guys,” I tell her.
She gives me a genuine smile. “Surprisingly, I don’t think anything is broken, but you’re going to be in pain for a while,” she says, cleaning my wounds with supplies from her bag. “I’m going to leave a few things to keep you comfortable over the next few days. Try not to take the harder stuff unless you need it, okay?” she says, dabbing my lips with a cool cloth.
I nod because it seems like it’s getting harder and harder to move my lips or my arm. “I’ll get some ice packs. You’re going to want to keep compresses on the areas that hurt intermittently. I’ll let Lorenzo know so he can help you with that. It will take a while to heal, but you will. Just have patience and don’t try to do too much too soon. It may be your face that took the brunt of the beating, but any trauma at all plays havoc with the entire body.”
I nod. “Can I sleep now? Lorenzo wouldn’t let me.”
Doc nods. “That’s good.” She glances at her watch. “You’ve been up and alert since the altercation. Get some rest. I’ll have Lorenzo wake you periodically, just to be sure.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I tell her.
“You’re welcome. Lorenzo has my number in case you need me,” she says, leaving me alone and closing the door behind her as I drift into a well needed sleep.
Chapter33
Lorenzo
I waketo the blaring sun and turn over, expecting Isabella to still be sleeping, drowsy from pain meds and in my arms. But her side of the bed is empty. I get up and pull on my jeans, padding into the dining room where Isabella sits at the table typing away.
She’s so intent on what she’s writing that instead of pulling her into my arms, I start some coffee, watching her type as it brews. Her expression changes multiple times as I observe the passion my beauty possesses as her fingers fly over the keyboard.
Isabella stops just as the coffee is finished brewing. I pour both of us a cup, add some cream to hers, and take them with me to the table.
She puts both hands around the large mug and brings it gently to her lips. “Mmm. Thank you.” After three days, they are still puffy but looking better than the rest of her face, which has turned bright purple. A grim reminder not to ever let her out of my sight or without the protection of more than one guard again, no matter how safe we think we are.
Someone is always going to be as determined to take what we have as much as we are determined to keep it. The De Rosas, the Bernatellis, the cartel and even the motorcycle gangs that are starting to put increasing pressure on the territory. It’s the way we live, and no one is safe unless we protect ourselves from it all.
She turns the laptop screen toward me. “I want you to read it. It’s the cathartic one that’s not getting published but for my eyes alone. Well, and now yours too,” she says, quietly.
My chest tightens with the trust that she must feel, inviting me into her private thoughts and feelings, even though I’m probably the subject of her prose.
I kiss her lips gently. “I love you, Isabella,” I tell her before beginning to read.
Dear Lorenzo,
There was a time when I thought love meant saying the words to someone and having them say them back. There, now we love each other. And then we live happily ever after.
But that’s far from the truth. My father taught me that, first cheating on my mother every chance he got, and then leaving us to do whatever it is that he did in this world whenever he was away, and after my mother died, again leaving, this time to spend the rest of his life behind bars instead of telling the truth.
At every turn, even though he said he loved us time and time again, his actions spoke louder and more truthfully than his words.
He taught me to distrust, and following the paths of multiple crime families taught me so much more. Yes, first, perhaps to distrust, because the world is not for the faint at heart by any stretch of the imagination.
It wasn’t until recently that I learned that saying I love you is not even necessary when you really do. Actions speak far louder than any of those words ever could, even though hearing them from your lips causes butterflies to dance in my stomach, pondering the life to come with you by my side.
The way someone cares for you, protects you at a moment’s notice, denounces other relationships that may have been fun in the past but are no longer desired. Doing it in such a caring way that no one is hurt but solidifying an ending so that a new beginning could start.
And righting a wrong, so passionately that the blood spilled that day will always be a stark reminder of just how much you love me. Because even though you’ve told me many times since, the words I love you are not near as powerful as the way you show me that love every single day.
Whether it’s with a gentle caress, a protective hand pressed at the small of my back, fierce and unabandoned lovemaking or with the brute force of a man who will do anything to protect his own.
The blood that stains your hands, the bruising to your knuckles, the disregard for family traditions when it comes to me. All of these things say what simple words cannot nearly as well convey.
I love you, Lorenzo.
Isabella
My chest tightens as I finish reading the heartfelt words she so eloquently puts to paper. A letter that will stay in my saved archives and treasured until the day that I die.
I pull her from her chair and into my lap, pushing hair from her face so that I can see her bright, moist, and expression-filled eyes. “I love you with everything that I am, Isabella. You are mine, for now and eternity.”
