For a few seconds I sufficiently trick myself into believing it's someone else. Anyone but the man who would've had to charter his jet, cancel probably a whole day of mafia meetings, and break down my door to materialize by my side at this most opportune moment. All after weaseling a love confession out of me, throwing it back in my face, and proceeding to fuck off for nearly a month.

Unfortunately, reality kicks in pretty quickly when said man is shouting in your face.

Or, at least it's coming across that way. My head is in the clouds and everything has been reduced to pain. Persistent, stabby pain. The kind where I can only focus on curling into a protective ball, not the litany of foreign phrases spilling into the air.

"I can't understand you, Massimo. Everything hurts and I want to die," I inform him.

Except this is not what I actually say because speaking takes a lot of energy and unintelligible mumbles are a lot easier.

His hands are on me, everywhere, and even the pain can't dull away his touch. It's rushed, searching, and I resist as he tries to pry me out of the fetal position.

That's really not going to end well for me.

"Vivienne," his sharp utterance of my name pierces through the haze. "Per favore. Andrà tutto bene, tesoro. Fammi vedere. Turn over for me."

I shudder at the warm burnish of his voice, so clear and comforting and here, which allows him to draw my knees from my chest and get me on my back. My view of the ceiling, now with Massimo's angular face taking up a good portion of it, lurches. Cold sweat spreads clammy fingers around every inch of me.

He's grabbing at my clothing, and because I'm pretty sure he's not currently trying to fuck me, I realize the idiot thinks I've been shot. I let him figure it out. His fingers are cool on my stomach, almost icy. He's so shaky it jars me even in this state. But the distraction takes away from the pain for just a moment. I breathe out what sounds embarrassingly like a whimper, trying to turn on my side again.

But nope. Too late. Massimo rakes one hand through that perfect hair, making it so not perfect. And that's the last thing I take note of before I'm scrambling to my feet by sheer determination to make it to the nearest bathroom. Immediately.

And he's there, holding back my hair as I hover over the toilet bowl. He's there, rubbing my back, gentle and soothing, even when I'm done and all that's left are soft cries and shakes. He's still there when the heaves come back, then go away, then come back again, for what feels like hours. In between, he'll disappear to refresh the cool washcloth draped over my neck, and it feels really nice.

Once my body decides it's done, he gathers me up, practically holding me vertical while I wash my face and brush my teeth hard and long enough to physically exhaust me. Once refreshed, I rest my nose in his left pec while he rustles around for something, and he keeps me there, smoothing my hair back with one hand, while the other takes something cool and wet to my face.

I then feel my hair being tugged, gathered, and tied at the top of my head. I still don't unplaster my face from his chest, but I'm pretty sure this man just successfully removed my makeup and wrangled my hair into a messy bun.

He lets me lean into him as we hobble to my room. Our progress is slow and cumbersome but he thankfully seems to understand that he can't just move me around as he sees fit. He has to let my body do what it needs. And right now, I need to keep my two feet on the ground and my arms wrapped around my stomach, one shoulder curled into Massimo's chest.

When he dresses me, it's the same. Slow, careful movements. I'm so fucking tired that I practically can't see. But I can feel his gentle touch and hear his low murmurings as he waits for my indication that I'm ready before removing my clothes and replacing them with something more comfortable.

Massimo isn't one to murmur sweet nothings. And I'm not sure he is, because he's functioning solely in Italian at the moment, but whatever he's doing is the right amount of distracting and tender to be everything I need.

"How long have you been sick?" 

Uh oh. That wasn't tender.

"Not sick."

"Then what do you call this?" His usual apathy has a little fire to it, sounding a little like accusation.

"I call it none of your business."

He's not impressed, running that calculating gaze over me several times. Then he stills. 

"But your period isn't supposed to come yet."

One of two things I could focus on here—that he's taken it upon himself to track my cycle and that's actually weirdly sweet, or that he figured out I'm on my period by looking at me. 

"Do I look like I'm bleeding, Massimo? What the fuck was that?"

His lips thin and he pushes me back on the bed. "Stop being offended by nothing. Lay down."

I do. Because I'm weak and he looks really good, and it's a great relief to see him here, maybe not happy and healthy but alive, because it soothes something that's been hurting in the deepest part of me.

Something warm presses into my stomach—my heating pad—and a moment later, he guides me up, pressing a couple pills into my mouth and tilting a glass to my lips. And there's a pathetic ask on my lips, but I force it to stay buried. It's just that I'd feel a lot better if he stayed, but even if he wanted to it wouldn't be a good idea.

I move to relax back into the sheets but he stops me. Gently easing me forward, Massimo lets me curl into my blessed ball of comfort again—but this time with my face in his neck. We go horizontal, his arms come around me, his warm breaths grazing the side of my face and his heart thumping strongly against mine. It's all so comforting that I already feel slumber creeping in.

The upside of my current situation: since I'm being ripped apart from the inside, I don't need to deal with the implications of this, or anything, in a realistic manner. So I clutch onto him like my life depends on it, and let sleep pull me under.

Fading back into reality an indeterminate amount of time later, I first register that the pain in my abdomen has dulled into a manageable throb. And then that Massimo has not moved an inch.

I lift up, expecting for him to be asleep, but his eyes are alert as they pass over my face, assessing. In the next moment, he's sitting up so fast I would've toppled off had he not clamped his arms tight. His jaw works—I count four pulses—before he manages to speak.

"What the hell was that, Vivienne?"

My jaw goes unhinged.

Belatedly, I realize this is the closest I've come to hearing Massimo curse.

"What the fu—" 

His arms cut me off. Because they're constricting. His face is pale. "You assured me you had a handle on your condition. Which I assume would mean I don't see you collapse to the floor as if you've sustained multiple bullets, from which moment you get violently sick then pass out for two hours."

"Hey asshole," I snap, finding that although I just woke up, I'm raring to go, "I don't have supernatural powers. How do you think this works?"

"You were so pale and weak that you could barely hold yourself over the toilet."

"Ew? We don't need to rehash that."

"I have had to check every fifteen minutes to ensure you were breathing," his voice raises, and I can't believe I even entertained the thought he was sleeping this whole time. He was probably rehearsing this. "I contacted my on-call doctor to make sure you weren't dying. He asked you questions which you answered, and then completely forgot about minutes later. You were shaking and out of it."

I frown, just now registering that his muscles are spasming as if they've been locked tight this whole time. "Massimo, we went through this before. You helped me last time—"

"This was way. Worse. Than last time," he bites out.

I take in his messy hair, suit rumpled from me laying and clutching onto it. He must not have had time to shave because there's stubble dotting his jaw. He looks... fuck, he looks good. 

He's also beginning to look done with me because I'm checking him out as he has a crisis.

"It was way worse because I'm stressed. Stress, diet, sleep, all those things can throw off my cycle," I tell him calmly, smoothing my hands down the side of his neck. His brows bunch and I realize with a telltale gut swoop that he's reacting to my intentional touch. "I'm okay. Your research didn't tell you all that, hm?"

"Tell me it won't be like that again when the painkillers wears off."

I shrug. "It might get bad again. I typically sleep off the entire first day."

He checks his watch. "It's been two and a half hours. You need a lot more rest."

"Yes, but—" I protest to deaf ears as he guides us back to laying down, wrapping me up again. If I weren't pissed at him—because I've just reminded myself I am—I would find his determined look funny. Like he can wrangle me to sleep.

"Hold on," something suddenly dawns on me, "you said you saw me collapse to the floor. That was a while before you even got here."

"Rest. Talk later."

"Am I going to want to beat your ass in two seconds?" I ask through clenched teeth.

"Vivienne. Rest."

That's a command if I've ever heard one.

"Massimo Romano, did you secretly install cameras in my apartment so you can spy on me?" I all but screech.

His eyes widen marginally as he pulls back to look at me. Like he's checking if yelling is bad for my period. And he decides that it is because he clamps his hand over my mouth before I can go on my tirade, pinning me with a stern look.

"It was earlier on, when we thought someone was after us. As you recall, I was experiencing a mental break, so it slipped my mind."

"You don't get to plead insanity for this one!" I manage around his hand.

"I was planning on telling you, but you didn't seem ready to hear from me."

Yes, because I was mourning. Yet another thing I can't expect him to understand.

I can't believe he saw those times I broke down over him, knowing it was because of him, seeing how affected I was and being fine and stoic through it all.

He's watching me closely, hand still muffling any attempted replies. "I only have a camera in your living room; it shows that room and the kitchen. My intention was to keep you safe."

Hm, that's better then. I think I had most of my breakdowns in my bed or the shower.

Slowly, he removes his hand, seeing that I am calm.

I start slapping at his chest. His breath escapes him in a surprised oomph.

"Why the fuck are you here then? Huh? That's pretty fucking twisted, Massimo, to expect for me to just be okay with you coming back like this. You left for almost a month and it sucked. When I left, you gave me a week before you came and dragged my ass right back where you wanted me. Dumb fucking shit! And what, you're fine leaving but you still need to check on me through some grainy ass camera? Make that make sense! Frankly, I'm not okay with—"

He shuts me up again, this time with his mouth. It's when my fingers are winding through his hair and his tongue is rolling over mine, and I'm aware of his body beneath me, that I pull back.

"I can't—"

"Vivienne, I know." He smooths a steady palm up the back of my neck, squeezing. "I know you're not okay with anything I do. The issue is I have no idea how to fix it."

The issue, of course, is that Leah's warning had essentially come true. And after turning over everything he told me before he left, I've concluded that Massimo is a person operating at about thirty-five percent. Meaning that he's functioning with thirty-five percent of whatever it is that makes us human.

"I can give you loyalty," he continues, face blank and calm. "Unwavering and unconditional. Meaning I would kill for you, die for you. It wouldn't be love. But if I do it right, if you accept my version of—" he breaks off, hand tightening on my neck, "maybe you wouldn't know the difference."

I would. I do.

But it would just break my heart all over again to tell him that.

"But you left." The words come out horribly vulnerable, so I clear my throat. "Was that before or after you realized how loyal you are?"

"Before," he says without missing a beat. "Seeing as I just realized."

"When you had your tongue in my—"

"When you were passed out on top of me and I was trying to get ahold of my doctor, and I found myself thinking that if you died I would regret the past three weeks very much."

"I was literally sleeping," I remind him. "Once again, this was never a matter of life or death." 

He doesn't answer, drawing me into him. It's... well fuck, it's a hug, and he's awkward and stiff but I bury my face in his neck and curl into him. His arms tighten to the point of pain, like he knows I need to be held together. And I don't let one fucking tear escape. I lock everything tight, everything he can't understand. I bite the inside of my cheek and screw my eyes shut because I just can't beg Massimo to love me.

Then I pull back. "I want to go back to sleep."

He nods, moving to lay us back down, but I shake my head.

"I want to go back to sleep alone."

The last thing he wants is to honor this request. But I don't have the energy to argue with him and the look on my face must convince him of something.

With clear reluctance he nods, getting up without a word. At the doorway, he turns. "Take your time thinking about it. I plan on doing whatever necessary to convince you this will be worth it."

♛

I'm down for the count for the next day and a half before I can stomach getting up and doing normal people things. Massimo sticks like velcro to my side and Nik sticks like velcro to his. The three of us are one big grumpy, emotionally constipated mess.

My moods fluctuate, to say the least. If my dad saw me, he'd shake his head and say something about how I'm giving Massimo "the full Vivienne Lee treatment." I go from misery to sentimentality in seconds. I want to kill Massimo because how dare he, then I'm so happy he's here and he's okay that I could cry. If he's struggling with my current state, it doesn't show. He's always cool and calm, extricating the root of my bad moods with simple but persistent questions.

When he's not a victim to his own head, he sure knows how to manage my shit.

By the time Massimo finally accepts that I can shower without him hovering on the other side of the curtain, I've decided he and I are fine as long as we don't talk about anything we actually need to talk about.

As lovely as it would be, I can't just look past everything that's happened. There's tension crackling between us and we need to have at least a couple important conversations before I can even begin to think about what Massimo's offered me.

We got into this whole mess because I'm exceptionally talented at being impulsive. Because I could look at him, all that emptiness, and still see something there. 

I'm not so sure what I see anymore.

There are things he's keeping back from me. And finding out he'd suffered some kind of loss of reality before the engagement party, realizing he hadn't told me and didn't see any issue in that... it damaged my confidence, to say the least. I'm not exactly hopeful that whatever else he has yet to tell me won't throw everything into irredeemable chaos.

It's torture being hurt by him, not because of the hurt itself, but because I want to be the one person who accepts all the parts of him nobody else has.

Since we're not talking about these things, we bicker.

Massimo pisses me off. He refuses to give up on making me to stick to a three-meals-a-day schedule because he doesn't understand that's impossible during a week like this. He pisses me off with his perfect skin, the taut muscle of his thighs. Which, while we're on the subject, makes me realize he has a nice ass, which pisses me off too. I stare at it hatefully each morning as he moves around the kitchen making me eggs. God, it's always eggs mixed with meat and far too many vegetables. Protein, he tells me, you need protein. He pisses me off with how good he feels when he has me laying over him like a blanket, those big hands soothing every one of my muscles until I'm pliable and soft. He pisses me off with the way he takes business calls in my living room or as he's over the stove making me something I won't eat, all authoritative and bossy. It's hot because he's the quiet kind of controlling; he never needs to yell. He pisses me off when those glasses of his come on in the evenings and he just meets my glare with an innocent unawareness, having no idea what they do to me.

I, of course, don't piss him off, because despite the fact that he's incapable of loving me, he's still obsessed with me and everything I do.

Except for one thing... which, unfortunately, is what starts the argument.

He's been on the phone with Santo, and it wasn't a good call. I can tell because of how quiet and stilted his speech became. But when I heard the words "Alpine Meadows" I froze.

Yeah, that's one of those things we need to talk about.

After they hang up, he's staring at the wall for a solid fifteen minutes while I pretend to be busy in the kitchen so I can spy on him and see how he's doing. Then suddenly, he turns to me.

"Did you think it would end well, you teaming up with Tommaso like that?"

I narrow my eyes, giving up the charade. "I don't think anything is currently going to end well, the way it's all going. So I wasn't sure, but I was willing to take the chance. Which, by the way, I never got to take," I remind him. "So no harm done."

He's tense, hands fisted in his lap. Veins in his neck visible from where I stand.

"I told you about Hope Valley. Not sure how you then thought it would be a good idea to try to send me back."

"Not sure I got the chance, actually," I assert, and uh oh, "because two seconds later you were throwing it in my face that you don't love me." I don't let him respond, or see my embarrassment, plowing forward to the actual point. "And yes, we should have talked to you. But you should know that not every institution is the same! And that it hurts the people around you to watch you slowly dying, Massimo. We're all desperate here. If you talked to us and gave us any other solutions we'd try them. People actually care about you, which you fail to see because you don't give credence to any other reality besides the one in your head! And you should've told me you were out of it at the engagement party. I clearly have no issue sticking around, but you need to let me. I'm confused—and fucking pissed, by the way, that you saw Cora and lied to me about it."

He went to her when he was sick. I can't get that out of my head.

Massimo stands slowly, but doesn't move from his spot. "Don't bring Cora up to me."

"That woman is fucked. You told me that yourself, yet you go to see her for a reason you can't tell me? What am I sup—"

A shatter interrupts me, and I stare in shock. Massimo's tipped over the vase of flowers on my coffee table. Petals and water and glass are all over the carpet.

"I said, don't bring her up to me," he says quietly. So calm. Like he's really not mad but something else, like he couldn't muster up anger to shut me up so he used violence. "I'm trying to talk about one thing, Vivienne. Not everything that has ever happened between us."

"Are we ever going to talk about Cora?"

He tenses. "No."

I pretend to be busy organizing the apples in the bowl on the counter. "Then I don't want to talk about my thing."

The intensity emanating from his side of the room is making it pretty difficult to breathe but unfortunately, that doesn't stop me from digging this fucking hole.

"You're an affliction, Vivienne." I gasp at that much meaner way of saying I'm a pain in his ass. But he's still going. "I can't give you a neat little list of what I'm feeling and why."

"Well, you certainly had no problems giving me a neat little list of what you don't feel," I snap.

I definitely should not have said that.

He takes a moment to digest my words, looking a little lost. "I never misled you. You knew everything you were getting into. You knew about me, you wanted me."

He's right, and my chest feels hollow. He never lied to me about who he was, and I still wanted him. The things he says, even when they hurt me, lack all the fiery intention normal people pack behind their jabs. It makes being mad at him feel unfair, but am I supposed to apologize for having emotions? For loving him and being hurt?

This shit has been building for months. With each eccentricity, each piece of chaos that's just Massimo. Each dismembered body part, bullet hole in his soldier's chest, eleven stab wounds in the other one, tying me to a radiator, handcuffing me in my kitchen. Everything I was fine with because he was still making me feel like I could be the center of his world, but then something in him turned.

But he still has a point. So I decide to retreat.

"Where are you going?" He's still standing in the middle of the living room, anchored to the spot.

"I need to cool down before I say something else that's stupid," I say, marching past. "I know it's not fair to you to keep throwing that in your face. So I'm going to go take fucking five."

Massimo looks very confused, probably because it sounds like I'm yelling at him.

"I love you, Massimo," I tell him because I can't keep my trap shut, "and that's why I did what I did. Because I love you and you're suffering, and I knew that even if you hated me, at least you'd be alive. Because what you felt the other day, when I was having stupid cramps? That's what I feel every day, magnified by like a thousand. And I'm at a point where I don't see any other way out of this. It's going to hurt either way."

He stares at me, and I stare back.

"And by the way," I add, "I'm not going to keep telling you I love you. That's the last damn time."

Finished, I turn to leave. But I soon realize he's following me.

"No," I tell him, whipping around, but he's closer than I realize so I whirl right into his chest. "Taking five doesn't mean follow me."

He slants me a very serious look.

"I'm taking five, too."

"Then go do it somewhere else," I say but now I'm whispering. 

"My father had good intentions when he sent me to Hope Valley." Massimo backs me up until my shoulders hit the wall. "But intentions didn't matter when they did what they did to me. I still don't remember, Vivienne. I can't go back to a place where I lose another part of myself, not when the part that's left is already inadequate for you. You understand?"

His honesty is in the middle of cracking me wide open when he palms the side of my face, tilting my head to expose my neck. A second later, he's swirling wet kisses there. Warmth travels down my spine and I sigh. He groans a little into my neck, and I feel his teeth.

"I don't tell you enough, how breathtaking you are," he murmurs. "By the time words pass through my head and out of my mouth, they are far too inadequate."

I grasp onto him, liking his words. He's in a talkative mood, and I let it wash over me because I don't know where he'll be tomorrow, or even in five minutes.

"I warned you before," he continues, dragging his kiss to my lips, "that I'll be selfish with you. You made your decision that you'd stay long ago. You're a big girl, yes? Can't go back on your word, Vivienne. Even when I left, I wasn't really gone. I see I made a mistake not making that clear to you. Since the very beginning, until the bitter end, dolcezza."

His mouth slants over mine, warm and inviting. Not for the first time, I deliriously wonder how he's this good at kissing. Also not for the first time, I wonder when he's going to fuck me.

"Go take your break," he pulls back, to my utter disappointment. "And don't think for a second your little moods matter to me." He grips my chin, tugging me to him. I lose my balance but he holds me there, making sure I hear him. "You're a headache, but you're mine. I'm going to have to remind you of that soon."

Well shit.

After that, I sit on my bed, fisting the duvet to prevent myself from going back out there.

Unknowingly, he's hit on my mother's voice in my head that constantly reminds me just how much I am. Nobody's ever been able to shut that voice up like Massimo does.

My phone's ringtone pierces through the Massimo-induced haze. It's my father, who hardly ever calls me unprompted. 

"Dad? Did something happen?"

"You could say that, Vivienne," he clips back, and immediately I can tell the man is furious. 

My muscles lock in panic. "What the hell happened?"

"Well, I was hoping you could tell me. Because I was wondering how and why my daughter is dating a man in the mafia. In. The. Fucking. Mafia!" At his language, I can't stop my gasp. It's fit for a horror movie jump scare. "And why she brought that man to her mother's kitchen table. But let's start with you dating him, actually, because Vivienne, you've managed to surprise me with the utter stupidity of your actions, which is something I never thought you'd do. Because I've damn near seen it all with you already!"

"How did you find out?"

It's not the best response, I'll admit. But it's all I can manage.

"Because," my dad continues to shout, "it's pretty damn obvious when his brother goes on trial for murder, and the whole thing is a damn media circus! You take one look at those men sitting in that courtroom and you just know. Massimo Romano may run a few legitimate businesses but he's rotten at his core, Vivienne. They might not have anything on him but now the world knows who he is."

"Dad, I—"

"Imagine my surprise when I find out that he's at the source of the shit I've been dedicating my life to fighting. The shit that takes me away from my family but I do, I have always done it, to provide for you and your siblings!"

"Da—"

"And I know you're not stupid, so what I'm telling you isn't news."

"It's not like you haven't fought for shitty people! If I remember, you've helped some not so innocent men go free." Also not the best thing to focus on here, but he's acting like he's never done anything immoral.

"There's a difference," he almost growls, "between shitty people and a fucking crime boss!"

It probably wouldn't be helpful here to explain that Massimo's not actually the boss. 

"Well, if you'd let me explain—"

"Fix this," he snaps. "Clean up this mess, Vivienne. Call me back when you're done."

Then he hangs up. I sit there in shock for maybe ten minutes. Partly because my father has never talked to me like that. But also because he, and thus my mother, know who Massimo is.

This is probably how I'll die.

I open my bedroom door. Massimo is on the other side with his phone held up to his ear. 

"You and I will be having dinner with my therapist, Adamo, and his wife," he says. "Soon. Whenever you're fully feeling better."

"That's great," I say. "My dad knows who you are and wants to kill you, and probably also me. My mother is probably on her way here as we speak, and she's never been a violent person but I fear this is going to send her over the edge. So dinner sounds nice, but let's make sure we do it before she gets here and flays me alive!"

My words end on a shout.

"Adamo, I'll have to cut this short," Massimo says and hangs up.

♛

Shit about to hit the fan but hopefully not in the way you expect! Brb writing the next chapter as we speak!

- G