Page 70 of Marrying the Mobster
She eats when I coax a tray onto her lap, and lets me carry her to the shower to bathe her every night. She lays limp and placid when I dress her and comb her hair, her eyes dead and unseeing. When I kiss her cheek and tell her I love her, that I’m here and she’s safe now, Elena only stares at me without blinking.
Over time, she finds the strength to move around on her own. Her voice returns, still raspy from being strangled, and so weak it nearly brings tears to my eyes.
“I’m fine,” she says when I ask her if she’s okay.
“I can do it,” she tells me when I try to help her down the stairs.
I hold her at night, and she curls into me as if seeking comfort. But she never talks to me about what happened—never offers me any words other than ‘good morning,’ ‘good night,’ or simple yes or no answers to my questions.
After a week I start to wonder if this will be the rest of our lives—Elena floating around the house in her leggings and sweatshirts, her gaze unfocused and faraway. She doesn’t seem to take pleasure in the things she loves. Her books lay in her lap, open to the same page every time. She stares at the words without reading them, and I have yet to see her turn the page. Her yoga mat is rolled up and pushed into the corner of our closet, forgotten. She lounges by the pool but never gets into the water. When she opens her design book to sketch, the silhouettes of gowns, jackets, and slacks are sharp and frantic—like the outlines of demonic figures instead of fashion models.
My kitten is lost, maybe broken beyond repair, and I can’t seem to reach her.
Is she too traumatized to move forward, or is she punishing me for my sins? I deserve to be punished, to feel alone while lying next to the woman I love and know I didn’t have to lose her this way. I deserve to long for her and be denied every time she sets those shuttered eyes on me, hiding the deepest secrets of her soul.
I kidnapped her, imprisoned her, forced her to accept my dominance and the ring on her left hand.
I did this and I will pay the price for it, even if Elena never forgives me. Even if she never smiles at me or opens her body to me again. There will never be another woman for me, even if I’ve lost her forever.
She’s been home for about a month before she finally cracks.
I enter our bathroom, worried she’s been in the shower for too long and needing to check on her. Through the glass I find her curled up on the tiles, sobbing and shaking as the water batters her nude body. Her bruises have healed, but she’s still drenched in pain, carrying the internal scars.
I open the shower and step in, still fully clothed and not caring about the water soaking me. My Elena is crying as if her heart is broken, and I have to be here for her. I have to hold her.
“Elena,” I whisper, crouching and pulling her into my arms. “Come here,gatita.That’s it … Let it all out.”
She wraps her arms around me for the first time in weeks. My throat tightens at the helpless sounds she makes, whimpering and mewling like a frightened child.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, for lack of anything else to say. “This is my fault. I know that. I wasn’t here to protect you, and I should have been. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Elena presses her hands into my chest, putting some distance between us. I cling to her waist, trying to bring her back, but she bats my hands away. Her eyes are narrow slits, burning into me with accusation. This is what I’ve been waiting for, and I find myself relieved because it’s a nice change from her eerie stillness.
“You’re mad at me,” I say, when she goes on silently staring, her chin trembling as water drops sluice down her face. “I deserve it. Let me have it,gatita.I can take it.”
She slams a palm into my chest, then another. Then she slaps me across the face, the blow stinging against my wet skin. I stand still and let her pummel me, her open-palm blows turning into fists that jab my torso like little hammers. She’s stronger than I expected after what she’s been through, and I absorb the dull ache of each punch as penance for the pain I’ve caused her.
When she’s finally worn herself out, Elena stands before me huffing and sniffling, her tears mingling with the cascade of water making her hair cling to her face and neck. “Iammad at you,” she whispers with a slow shake of her head. “I’m so fucking furious, I could scream.”
Her words hurt more than her physical blows, and I nearly stagger under the weight of them. “I know. I failed you.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “But you didn’t fail me by leaving to go after Viktor. It was the right thing to do—the best thing you could do based on the information you had. I’m not even mad at you for leaving me here, or the fact that I got kidnapped. I knew life with you would have its share of dangers. What happened that night at the docks, and Viktor showing up to kidnap me … both those things were outside your control.”
I search Elena’s face, confused and stunned that she’s spoken more words in thirty seconds than I’ve heard from her all month.
“You made me weak,” she goes on, seeming unable to stop now that she’s opened her mouth. “You kept your operations a secret from me, and you didn’t teach me how to fend for myself. You left me to count on you to save me, and you almost came too late! You made me love you, but you also made me depend on you to save me … and I didn’t know how to save myself.”
She’s crying again, dropping her head so that her wet hair hangs in her face. I take hold of her shoulders, pulling her closer until she tips her chin back to look at me.
“Tell me what you need,” I plead, giving her a little shake. “Tell me how to help you, or how to make this right, and I’ll do it. Do you want to be free? Do you want me to let me go? If that’s you want, I’ll do it. I can’t stand to see you like this.”
Elena grasps my shoulders and pulls me down, until we’re forehead-to-forehead, our breaths tangling together in the steam of the hot shower. That fire inside her sparks to life in the depths of her eyes like golden flames.
“I don’t want you to let me go,” she says, fingernails digging into my skin. “I love you, Diego. I’ve loved you even when I wanted to hate you, even when you hurt me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and absorb her declaration. This is the first time she’s admitted it out loud. Part of me has known for a while, but hearing her say it makes it real. It takes away any lingering doubt I might have had before now.
“But,” she adds, “if we’re going to be together some things are going to have to change, starting right now.”
