Chapter 25: Wicked Fame: Chapter 25

“Why aren’t you asking about him?” Ella says.

I’m in my room, yawning under the covers. Ever since I left the hospital, all I’ve done is sleep and eat. Mom dotes on me all the time, force-feeding me more food than I actually need because she’s scared I’ll wither away and die if she doesn’t. Elliot has been busier with work of late, but he does visit occasionally. Ella comes over on most days. Now that her final project has been submitted and her exams done, she has nothing but time on her hands.

“Who?” I ask.

“The guy who shot you.” She’s absently flipping the pages of the book on her lap. She brought it to read out to me. She has been reading it out to me little by little every day. It’s a fantasy adventure novel. I’m not big on fantasy but listening to her voice narrating stories is strangely soothing. Also, I have nothing better to do.

“Ethan told me he was part of the mafia and he shot me by mistake,” I say in response, slowly sipping water. “I don’t want to know his name. It’s better if I’m in the dark.”

The pages of the book rustle as her fingers crush the edges. “I’m so glad you pulled through that tough surgery. The wound might scar forever but at least the nerves in your hand weren’t damaged so you can paint.”

“Yeah. I’m grateful,” I mumble. Art has been my salvation these past few days.

I decided to focus on my health and leave my career when I was feeling better, but ironically, that kick-started my inspiration. Vivid images and whimsical ideas take shape at the shadowy edges of my mind all the time, promising me they’ll be my next genius project. Sometimes, my hands itch to paint. But it still strains my muscles to paint for an extended time so I settle for sketching in my pad.

I’ve filled up the thirty pages of my A5 sketch pad already. I’ll have to ask Mom to buy me a new one.

Ella’s gaze swings back and forth between me and the closed pad lying on my nightstand. “Can I see your drawings?”

“Sure.”

I no longer feel the impulse to hide the less-than-desirable parts of myself. Regardless, a flash of heat expands across my face the moment Ella starts flipping through the book.

Ella blinks as black and white pencil likenesses of the same deep-set eyes, the same perfect jaw, the same drastic bone structure, and a sharp profile greet her page after page. Portrait after portrait of Gabriele Russo. Smiling as he did in Portofino. Contemplative. Laughing at my jokes. Crying. Hungry as he watches me come.

I can draw him from memory alone in a million poses. All his expressions are like still images permanently framed in the museum of my mind. Every single one is a sketch filled with love. I’m sure she can sense that, too.

“They’re all pictures of him,” she surmises. When my brows knit into a questioning V, Ella explains, “I saw Gabriele at the hospital. Many times. Ethan and he argued a lot.”

Should’ve guessed. I’m sure it took every ounce of magnanimity Ethan possessed not to immediately bring a lawsuit against Gabriele.

I curl my spine into the fluffy pillows propped against the headboard of my bed. “I’m only drawing what comes easy.”

What I said to Elliot snakes through my consciousness.

My art was filled with the truth even when I was filled with lies.

Longing sneaks into my veins. A craving I can’t satisfy with anything except the rough touches of a particular man. I mentally shake myself.

No. I decided to let Gabriele go. I’m grateful for everything that he did for me and I’ll love him forever, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to ruin his new life. He deserves stability and true love, not an unstable addict to take care of on top of everything else he’s burdened with. I won’t be selfish like his mother. I won’t expect him to bear the burden of my demons.

“Why am I not surprised that all you’ve drawn is Gabriele Russo? That he’s what comes easy to you.” Ella’s mention of his name sticks like a needle in my already-bleeding chest. “You don’t want to know where he is considering he’s the reason you went through the horrific ordeal in ER?”

“No. I don’t care.”

Ella giggles like I made a joke. “You do care, Francesca, or you wouldn’t keep drawing him like a teenager doodling their crush.”

“Ella, stop. I don’t want to talk about Gabriele.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s hopeless. I can’t have him and I want to wish for his happiness from the bottom of my heart. But every time I’m reminded of him, my heart hurts and the desperation I put away comes back stronger until I want to jump into his arms again.” I curl my fingers into fists. “I can’t afford to do something so foolish right now.”

“Are you scared now that you know how dangerous his world is? Is that why you’re avoiding him?”

I shake my head. I wish I had common sense. I wish danger put me off. I wish knowing that I could die any moment if I was with him made my love for him go away.

But no. I’d gladly live inside a landmine as long as I can be with him.

The danger isn’t my greatest obstacle. It’s the promise I made to him. I won’t wreck his dreams of domestic bliss.

“Ella, he’s getting married.” My breath feels cold as it squeezes out of my nostrils.

She releases a peal of laughter. “Gabriele has been hovering around the hospital the entire time you were there. Trust me, I know a man in love when I see one.”

“It doesn’t matter who he loves.” Powerlessness weakens my voice. A blade of pain slices through my abdomen, throbbing in my cells. “He’s in the mafia. He can’t choose his partner.”

Ella’s eyes squeeze shut. She opens them again, looking straight at me. “He can and if he’s worthy of your love, he will.”

“You don’t get it. It’s I who doesn’t deserve him. You know I’m messed up. His mother was an addict, too. He spent all his youth looking after her. It’d be cruel to ask him to watch me spiral.”

“You won’t spiral.” Ella plants her palms over my hands. “You’ll get better.”

“I’ll try, Ella.” Uncertainty is a rock dragging me down. “But I don’t know how things will turn out. I’m not pressuring myself to get it right the first time. I’ll have to be patient. I might require a few stints in the rehabilitation center to kick the habit.”

Her eyes widen with renewed hope. “You’ll go to rehab?”

“Yeah. Having a brush with death has made me understand how much I value my life.” I breathe out. “I’m going to take a break from the world of fine art. My thesis is finished, so I should be able to graduate. After that, I’ll take things slow. I always felt insecure so I pushed myself to be the best as soon as possible.”

Being an artist felt like fighting the whole world by myself, a battle against time and society. Healing will not only involve giving up substances but most of all giving up the attitude where I constantly feel the need to prove myself to people, justify my right to be unhappy, and express my hollowness through art. To convince the world (but mostly myself) that all parts of me have value, especially the sad, shameful parts. It’s those things that I fear will take forever.

“Francesca, you’re unique.” Ella rests the book she was holding on the nightstand. “There’s no other artist like you in the world. I’ve always loved your drawings. And I can’t wait to see what amazing things you will come up with next—both in art and life.”

She leans in closer to me. I hug my arms around her waist. Her warm, slim body is beautiful, but part of me misses the broader, muscled body of Gabriele.

I mentally hiss at myself. I have to accept the reality. I must be happy with what I have. I’m so lucky to have a great friend who accepts me.

“Thanks, Ella,” I say. “Sorry for being a horrible friend to you these last few months.”

“I understand you were going through your own battles,” Ella says. “It took me years to find the courage to tell you what happened to me. These things aren’t easy.”

“Will you forgive me?”

“Always. Now that you know my secret and I know yours, we’ll be closer than ever.”

“Of course, we’ll be.” I press my body harder against her, even though it hurts. “Given that you will become my sister-in-law in the not-so-near future, do I even have a choice?”

“I’m not—” She gasps. “Ethan and I aren’t getting married.”

“He bought an apartment, though. A very suspicious move,” I note.

“I had nothing to do with that decision. But Ethan did ask me to move in with him,” she replies, a touch self-conscious.

“Will you?”

A sniffle against my shoulder. “My mother isn’t completely well. I can’t leave her alone. But in the future, maybe when she’s better, I’ll think about it.”

“I hope it works out. You two have been alone for too long. I hope you both can finally feel a little less lonely in the world now. And be the happiest people alive.”

“I want the same for you,” she says. “I want you to be the happiest, too.”

“That’s a tall order—”

Ella grinds to her feet, jerking away from me when someone pounds on my room’s door.

“We have a visitor,” the maid says in a frightened voice, her head poking through the door. “A man who looks…well, he isn’t like our usual guests. I was going to call the police but he claims he knows you. I’ve seen him around the neighborhood before.”

Hope peaks inside my chest. “Is he over six feet, tall, dark, and menacing?”

She executes a quick series of nods. “He said his name is Gabriele Russo.”

Ella and I stare at each other, a flood of surprise welling up in my throat.

“I don’t know if I should see him,” I confess, scratching a hole in my thigh with my nails.

Ella bends over to place a palm on my head. “Francesca, can you forget about him?”

“Never.”

“Then stop acting so wishy-washy.” That’s all she says. She doesn’t urge me to call him, to find him, to speak to him. She doesn’t have to.

Whatever I do next is my own decision.

I choose to drag my recovering body down the stairs to the front door.

The tall man planted outside the front door doesn’t have a bouquet of red roses, a check for damages, or anything. No get-well present or grand gesture.

There’s only him, in his usual black suit.

And it’s enough. It’s enough in a way drugs and alcohol have never been enough. It fulfills me in a way that people’s praise of my art never did. The sight of his visage dissolves the scar of uncertainty left by weeks of waiting, wondering, hoping, and despairing.

The fragrant spring air bites my skin.

The feverish second when our gazes tangle stretches interminably. My pussy throbs so hard, I’m afraid it’ll burst open. Need blisters my sore opening.

“Gabriele, why did you come here? What if your wife—”

He catches the direction of my gaze and cuts me off before I can finish. “I didn’t get married, Francesca. Couldn’t. Not when you’re the only one for me.”

The world crackles and spins around me. Heat is a hornet’s nest stinging my stomach.

The mobster advances upon me, his shiny, polished shoes treading over the carpet in quiet whispers.

“What do you mean?” My voice breaks with elation I’ve never allowed myself to feel since the day we broke up.

“I don’t care if your brother kills me, but I’m marrying you.” He shrugs. “Eventually. Once I quit the mafia.”

My jaw nearly hits the floor. “You’re leaving the mafia? Is that even possible?”

“It is and I’ve already talked to my boss. He said he’ll let me go after a year. I never want you to be in danger again, Francesca, not because of me. As it is, I’ll have to beg for your forgiveness my entire life. I put you in danger because I was careless. I regret it every single day. I shouldn’t have left you unprotected that day. I thought I was doing the right thing by pushing you away, but it was just a coward’s way out. I was too deeply in love with you and I knew you didn’t want or deserve the pathetic, anxiety-filled lifestyle I was offering you. Your rejection at the restaurant hurt me so I wanted to hurt you back. Immaturity got the best of me.”

His words are like a dream come true. Like an invisible finger dragging over my raw, bruised heart. My stomach trembles.

“Don’t hate me, Francesca.” If looks could reduce someone’s resistance to ashes, Gabriele’s soft, begging expression would be a smoking grenade. “Believe me. I never intended to harm you. I kept thinking you’d change your mind.”

For the first time, I take a step toward him despite knowing that I will lose every shred of control once I’m close to him. I don’t care. I’ve missed him too much. My heart needs the medicine that’s his touch.

“I could never hate you.” The words eject themselves through the big lump in my throat.

“When I saw you bleeding, I knew that regardless of if you lived or died, I could never forget you,” Gabriele whispers. “If you died, I would have gladly grieved you forever rather than spend a single day with another woman. And if you were alive, I swore I’d become a man worthy of you. It’s okay if you don’t love me. I still love you. I’ll wait for you to return my feelings for the rest of my life.”

“I already love you, though,” I say. “I always have, Gabriele. I adored you since the moment I saw how tender and sensitive you were beneath all your bluster. You notice things about me people never bother to see and you shower every part of me with your love and understanding, even the parts I am still learning to accept. There is nothing more I could ask for from someone.”

His intake of breath is audibly surprised. “Do you…really mean that?”

Tears push against my eyes, demanding to be set free. “Yes. I mean it. One hundred percent. I’m so grateful to have met you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Every grunt erupts out of me more desperate than the previous. “Thank you for valuing the sad, miserable parts of me as much as the rest of me. Thank you for healing my pain and for loving me despite all the ways I’ve hurt you and messed things up.”

“No, Francesca, I don’t deserve your gratitude.” He lays a possessive palm over my shoulder. “Not when I’m the reason you almost died. But I’m a greedy man, so it makes me happy to hear it.”

One step then our bodies are caught up in each other’s like tangled threads. Like clockwork, his hand finds my neck, and my arms find the solid weight of his back. He lowers his lips to mine. We meet in an explosive spark of heat, a burning splint of pleasure.

I take his tongue, loving the velvety taste of him, relishing the solid press of his hand between my thighs. Pleasure throbs in my abdomen, heavy and hopeful, a prayer I need to be answered.

Until my lips ache from the roughness of his stubble stroking across them.

“What did you do to him? The man who shot me.” I ask, worry snaking between my happier thoughts the moment our lips part.

Gabriele’s eyes narrow. “What he deserved. But know this: those hands that hurt you? He’s never using them again.”

He cradles my face. With his thumb pressing gently on my chin, he kisses me again. When he pulls himself back, his eyes are red. Filled with pain and everything he has held back for so long.

Tears carve hot trails down my cheeks. I swim to the sanctuary of her arms. This is such a beautiful moment. There’s nothing spectacular or grand about it but our emotions make it the most gorgeous day of my life.

“Thank you,” I whisper one last time. “This is everything I ever imagined but dared not hope for. Now if only you’d make me come. I’ve been starved of orgasms for days.”

Gabriele plants a kiss on my forehead. “I don’t think the foyer of your house is an appropriate place for me to undress you. Unless you’re into that, too?”

An embarrassed laugh scales my throat. “No, I’m not. Not with my mother around. But Ella’s in my room so—”

“I was just leaving. Take care, Francesca. I’ll call you later. You two must have a lot to catch up on.” Ella marches up behind me, waving me bye-bye as she stealthily glides out of the door.

I’m internally grateful for Ella’s mental sharpness because if I had to send Gabriele away, my body would actually explode.

I grab his hand and quietly lead him up the stairs. Mom watches me, a dent of worry carving a line between her brows but I nod to her, mouthing ‘It’s okay.’

Gabriele is a secret I’m done hiding. He’s the man I love. And I don’t care what Ethan or my mother think of him, I’m proud to love him and be loved by him. I want the whole world to know that.

The heat between us intensifies the moment the door to my room clicks shut. He locks it. I catch the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. On any ordinary day, he’d be tearing my clothes off but now he hesitates, settling for brushing back my hair with his fingers.

“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I’m okay now. I can have sex. Just nothing too rough.”

“I’ll never hurt you again,” he promises.

Still, his reluctance doesn’t disappear. Slowly, I lower one side of my dress, revealing the scar from the gunshot wound I suffered. His whole face immediately pinches into a mask of sadness.

“This …” He kisses it reverently. “It breaks my heart to see it. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve decided to see it as a reminder of my victory over my demons.” My core shivers at the trail his lips are painting over my collarbone. “I always thought death was the ultimate escape but when it became a reality, I was scared of losing the life I hadn’t yet lived. That’s why I will go to rehab. I will slowly get myself back. It’s not a race to the top. I can get there slowly. I don’t need success immediately. I’m no longer going to live my life to prove to people on social media that I deserve to live, too. I just want to have fun painting again.”

His hand stills on my thigh. “You’re giving up on fame?”

“I’m going to stop pursuing it so desperately. I’ll let it come to me. And if it doesn’t…well, then I don’t want it. Because I have something better.” I grind myself against his hand. “I have you.”

Gabriele goes quiet for a few moments, using that time to guide me gently onto the bed. I attack the buttons of his shirt, breaking one as I get the shirt off him. One by one, we pluck every article of clothing from each other. I’m hungry, and impatient while he’s slow, and patient. His eyes are fixed on me throughout the undressing process.

“I only wish I was half as great as you believe I am. I’ll do my best for you, Francesca. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’ll support you. And if my best is not enough, I’ll do even better.” Gabriele’s breath smells like smoke, like the memory of our first meeting, like everything that I’ve been holding inside my chest afraid the world will judge it.

I let it all out in front of him, baring the new me, the me who plunges into the flame knowing it’ll burn me but I’m not cowering anymore.

“Get on top of me. Ride me,” he begs, laying on my bed, surrendering his body to me entirely.

I know it’s his consideration speaking. He’s afraid his weight might bear down too hard on my recovering body.

I do as he says without protest, mostly because I feel confident enough in my skin to try something new with him. For as long as we’re together, I’ll never stop being surprised by the new parts of me that I discover when we’re intimate.

It’s the gentlest sex we’ve ever had. It feels like the warm glow of candlelight under my skin. A soft, luxurious, easy sensation that I sink into effortlessly. He lets me do as I please, murmuring praises. “Good girl. You’re so fucking sexy when you’re riding me.”

We fly so close to the sun together, it’s a surprise we aren’t burned to ashes.

The bed creaks under our spent bodies.

I close my eyes, letting the glittering sensations conquer every last doubt I have about us.

When the stars stray from beneath my eyelids, leaving only a dense, throbbing blackness, I realize I’m no longer scared of the darkness.