my discharge, just before I'm supposed to leave the hospital, Natalia walks me to Nero's room.

With each step on the shining linoleum, my heart thuds painfully in my chest.

Please let him be okay. Please let him survive.

I'm nervous for what I'll see, because I know how badly hurt he is.

I suck in a breath as Natalia shoves open the door, a gentle hand at my back to keep me steady. I'm still sore, my face is still bruised and scraped and bandaged in few places. A swollen eye, splinted finger.

But my injuries are nothing compared to his.

I inhale a sharp breath at the sight of him, lying on that bed in his hospital gown, the faint chirping of machines and the stream of medication flowing into his blood through too many IV lines.

His chest rises and falls slowly. I can see the bulge of bandages peaking out from beneath the sheets.

When I sink into the chair beside his bed, I can't stop the tears that leak from my eyes. This entire week I haven't been able to stop crying, I've been so irrationally emotional and hormonal but seeing Nero is the most painful thing so far.

His left arm is in a cast, his hand splinted and bandaged. His head is wrapped with white gauze above the forehead, both eyes are blackened, a split lip and cuts and bruises and I hurt just looking at him.

I try to picture him before, his strength and beauty and perfection, but I cannot reconcile those memories with the broken man lying in front of me.

"Is he going to be okay?" I whisper to Natalia, gently reaching for his right hand. His fingers were bloodied and beaten harshly from the fight he had a week ago, but the skin has already begun to heal, his cuts have hardened over and the bruises have changed color.

"They say he will be. I know it looks really bad, Ros, but he'll recover." She sounds sure. I think she needs to be sure, because the alternative is unthinkable.

She said he hasn't woken up yet from the surgery yesterday morning. I know, staring at the damage that has been done to him, that there is no way I can leave this room until those swollen eyelids open, when I know he's returned to this world.

It's not okay what's happened to us, what's happened to me. But I can think about that tomorrow, can figure it all out later.

Right now, the heavy, aching feeling in my chest is because I love him, because I love him so much and I need him to survive, and that is all that matters today. It's not rational and it's not sane and it's probably not good for me but it doesn't fucking matter.

And so I wait. I wait in the half-silence of this plain, sterile room for a long time, my fingers softly gripping his.

I forced Natalia to take a break, to go home to shower and eat something while I'm here.

Dad and Daniel are working today, my mom has the day off and I know she's waiting outside Nero's room, waiting for the moment I'm ready to leave. I wonder what she's thinking, but I know whatever it is, it's confusing and it hurts, and the guilt I feel is just another agonizingly difficult emotion on top of a pile of difficult, painful emotions.

After forever, I think I feel his fingers twitch. I sit up straight and then I'm not imagining it when his eyes peel open slowly, shift around the room groggily, take in the machines and the bandages and he is likely very sore, even with all the morphine coursing through his veins.

I give him time, grip his fingers gently, wait for the confusion and worry to fade from his battered face. When his eyes find me, the smallest smile tilts up the edges of his cracked lips, and it looks painful but I smile back, wiping the wetness away from beneath my eyes.

"Hey," I say softly, leaning in. "How are you feeling?"

A pointless question, but I don't know what else to say.

He takes a while to respond, to swallow away the dryness in his mouth and open his sore jaw and form words. His voice is a course, raw whisper. Every sound is a slow, effortful struggle. "Like... I was beat half to death by the Italian mafia."

And I can't help it but I laugh a quiet, small laugh because he just woke up from surgery and he made such a stupid joke and it might just be okay.

And then I see his expression sober, see his eyes take in every inch of my face, float down to my body as I sit beside his bed. I know he's guilty and worried and blaming himself. "Are you okay, dolcezza?"

I breathe, nod for his benefit even if it's not completely true. "I'm alive, Nero. So are you." I purse my lips, trying to will away the sore ache in my throat. "That's all that matters right now, okay? Just get better." There's a soft darkness in his hooded eyes, he grips my hand a little tighter, but he's still so damn weak. 'Weak' is not an adjective I ever thought I would use to describe Nero, but there it is.

"I'm so fucking sorry, amore mio. I'm sorry this happened. I'm sorry I didn't prot—"

I stop his apology with a finger against his dry lips. "Don't. Don't worry about it now, Nero. I'm here, I'm here and I'm okay and you're going to be okay." I meet his gaze, want him to see that I really am here and alive and that we'll get through it.

I can think about the consequences, about the damage, later.

"Okay?" I wait, for him to agree.

Finally, he breathes, "Okay."

We stare at each other a while, and I can sense his eyelids growing heavy, I'm sure he's so incredibly exhausted still.

I sift my fingers ever so lightly through his tangled hair, leaning in to place a soft kiss onto his bandaged forehead. "I love you, Nero." Even after everything, it's true. I think it will always be true.

I can practically feel his relief, he lets out a small sigh. He breathes a tired, gruff, "I love you, Rosalyn," before those eyes collapse shut and he succumbs again to sleep.

•§•

old, I'm staying in the guest room of my parents' house, temporarily.

Yes, it's pathetic.

But there's no way to go back to my place, the scene of the crime, the setting for all the good and inexplicably horrific things that have happened to me.

My family collected my things once the police let them into my apartment. The objects of my life sit in boxes in the basement, collecting dust.

I explained to my boss what the frick happened to me, and she was amazing about it. She's given me the month off, semi-paid leave, to recover and to take care of myself.

It gives me some solace to know that people can be kind and good in spite of it all.

•§•

me with PTSD.

She says that's it's not something that comes from a single traumatic incident. That it's the result of a series of stressors, a culmination of many difficult, extenuating events. I guess, when I think about it, that describes me.

When I told her my story, every sordid, painful, brilliant detail, I imagined she'd never heard anything so ridiculous, anything so bizarre.

Dr. Maneck's austere, wrinkled forehead twitched by the end of it. She told me that she's been doing this a long, long time, but that my case was... especially unique.

She says that she'll work with me to get through this, to make sense of it, to heal and recover and then learn to make decisions that are good for me.

I wonder, at the back of my mind, what that means for Nero.

•§•

Daniel and Shauna still don't really know what to say to me, and I don't blame them.

They've been mostly pretending that everything is okay, they've been supportive and soft and haven't shown me how hurt they are.

But at Sunday night dinner, a week or so after I left the hospital, my dad and Daniel have somethings to say.

"The police arrested Franco Russo this afternoon," my dad begins softly. "They found him in Abbotsford."

I suck in a breath. I guess that bastard wasn't even smart enough to leave the province.

Silence.

Then Daniel says, "Natalia says the police haven't charged Santino with anything." Under his breath, he mutters something that sounds like fucker.

I fix my eyes onto the plate in front of me, pushing my fork limply through a small pile of mashed potatoes.

Nero. Daniel refuses to even say his name.

I can practically feel the waves of frustration rolling off of him.

I feel helpless, because I don't want to defend Nero to my family. They wouldn't understand. I don't expect them to understand, after everything they've been through.

"There was a deal. To turn Marco, Franco, and the Santirellis into the police." My voice is hesitant.

I think I mentioned this to them, back in the hospital. I know that I said a lot of things, only some of which I remember.

Suddenly, at the back of my mind, I consider the possibility that Daniel is gonna try to put Nero behind bars.

Would he do that to me? To Natalia?

"I made a call to an old friend in the RCMP," my dad continues.

My heart beats faster at that. He knows something, about Nero's fate. Something important.

I look up at him, study that face that I've known since forever. He looks like he's aged a decade in the last two years. I can't help but feel like I'm to blame.

"They have enough evidence to arrest Niccolo Santirelli and most of the others involved in his operations. They charged him with racketeering, drug trafficking, and murder."

Those are the kind of people you've involved yourself with, Ros. He wasn't thinking it and he didn't say it, but I feel the guilt like a constant, dull pull at the back of my mind.

I wait, for the rest of his news. I know there's more.

"The Santinos were given immunity in exchange for cooperation and testimony."

My eyes flit over to Daniel. He's staring wordlessly at his plate, seething inside. I can sense his infuriated helplessness radiating from him across the table.

"He said that they're not pursuing any more suspects at the moment."

Thank God.

I can feel the weight of it lift from my shoulders, a breath of relief escaping my lips.

I have fewer things to worry about now.

Marco is dead. Franco is in custody. Nero is free.

It seems like a happy ending, but the scars that ripple across my aching heart tell another story.

The heavy silence at this table tells another story.

I'm relieved but it still hurts.

***

A/N:

We're down to 5 more chapters or so. I don't know about you guys, but I'm pretty excited (and a little sad) that this is all over soon.

XOXO Ami

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