They couldn’t give me a real prognosis because they honestly didn’t know.
So yes, I was making progress, but I still had to change out my dressings every morning and every night.
I still had to dab antibiotic ointments on my most recent skin grafts every few hours to ward off infections. While part of the injured area had become uneven scar tissue, the skin grafts continued to look scarlet red and stay sore to the touch. So the rolling over issue remained.
The problem was, I’d always slept on my back prior to being burned, and the habit had been so engrained it’d proven hard to break. Also, the fact that I made the move while fully unconscious of what the fuck I was doing meant it kept happening no matter how many reminders I gave myself before I nodded off.
Which frankly, sucked ass.
But all I could do was keep on keeping on. At least, that’s what the doctors told me. It could’ve been worse. Luca and I could easily have been killed that night, through smoke inhalation, being crushed to death, or by being burned alive. Had the firefighters not discovered us when they did, I was sure one of those would’ve applied.
Sometimes it wasn’t rolling over on my back that woke me. Sometimes nightmares did the honors.
I’d relive being trapped beneath the chunk of ceiling that had fallen on me, the drywall and wood ablaze, the tendrils of each flame sizzling flicker by flicker into my skin. There’s nothing quite like having the knowledge of not only what it feels like, but also what your own skin smells like as it’s being scorched into the equivalent of charcoal.
It’s knowledge no one should ever have.
It had even affected my taste buds. For weeks afterwards, the taste of oily smoke had tainted every piece of food I’d tried to put in my mouth. Another reason for the weight loss.
My worst dreams had left me panicked, sweating, my back searing, and my nostrils full of that odor I wished more than anything I could forget. Even though I’d now been through five skin graft surgeries—the first one on my left shoulder didn’t take—and the disgusting patchwork of scars had become somewhat easier to digest, I still remembered how it’d looked in the beginning.
The charred dark brown leathery substance that used to be my skin. The redness and blisters underneath that never popped or came to the surface. The waxy yellowness at the center of some of the burns. The chemical stench of all the antiseptic gels they’d used on it. It made me feel inhuman. It made me feel like a monster.
And no one seemed to understand this. Even Luca. His burns had been painful but much less severe. It’d taken about a month to heal his blistery mess, but it had healed. He had some scarring, but it was minor compared to mine. The skin of his legs appeared almost normal now, even if he did limp. But me?
I was pretty certain I’d never look or feel normal again.
Not that I regretted saving him. Luca was the patriarch of the Varasso clan, and as his second in command—not to mention his brother—it was my duty and responsibility to watch over him. For years we’d fought each other tooth and nail over nearly every aspect of our professional and personal lives. His decisions used to anger me more often than not.
But that was all over now. He’d changed toward me, returned to the way we’d behaved with one another as children. Back then, I’d been quiet and docile, acquiescent.
Then, when I was fifteen, I’d fallen in love for the first and only time. Yes, we were young. And yes, it might’ve been puppy love, but it had felt real.
It had been real.
And then, through no fault of hers or mine, it was over. We were forced apart. Separated forever because I’d been born a Varasso, a member of the Italian mafia.
Having her taken away had hurt. And made me furious. Furious at the situation. Furious at my family for being who they were.
Most of that fury I reserved for Angelo Varasso, my father. He was the one who’d raised us in this. In the goddamn mob. He’s the reason we were all forced to live this insanely perilous lifestyle. Up till my run-in with heartbreak, I’d accepted my life as it was, but afterwards I resented it.
Deeply.
The fact that our choices had been ripped from us based on who our dad was pissed me off to this day. Even though he’d been dead for nearly a year, I still hated my father. I would always hate him. He’d been cruel and demanding. Not to mention a liar. He’d cheated on our beloved mother, the kindest, gentlest woman to ever walk the planet.
I loathed him for that alone.
He’d twisted all four of us into cold ruthless killers. Required it of us. Thinking back on my childhood, I couldn’t believe I’d been so eager to please him. To kowtow to his wishes. The bastard.
For a while, Luca—the family’s designated Crown Prince—had reminded me of him. Maybe that’s why I’d gone out of my way to make my eldest brother’s life more difficult. It hadn’t been completely intentional. Every time Luca would do something that Angelo would’ve done, it incensed me. And then, I’d bait him. Sometimes to the point where we came to blows.
Yet deep down, I knew Luca wasn’t our father, any more than I was. When our mother had been killed in a car accident, Angelo had barely waited six months before he replaced her with a fucking mistress. Right there at our mother’s beloved oak dining room table, too.
Christ, he’d been such an asshole.
Luca would never have done that. My brother had loved two women in his life, both of them to absolute distraction. Alana, his daughter Anna’s mother, had died giving birth to her. Losing her had come close to destroying him. Way too close. For a year, I feared I’d find him with a bullet through his head. His own bullet. He’d been that despondent.
But luckily, Molly had come along. She’d mended him, put him back together again. I hadn’t liked her presence at the beginning, hadn’t trusted her, but she proved herself trustworthy. She was also the smartest woman I’d ever met and tough as an old boot. She was good for Luca, better than good, and I’d always love her for that. For giving my brother back his humanity.