Hidden Worthiness

by Susan Fanetti

  “Tammy.” She smiled and pushed a button, and the head of the bed came up slowly. When pain flared through his middle with sharper teeth, after only a few inches, and that buzzing in his legs almost became a scarier numbness, she stopped and raised his knees a bit, and the pain eased. “Okay?”

  “Thanks. That’s good.”

  “Okay, I’ll see if your friend is awake. I’ll be off my double at seven a.m., but I’m yours until then. If you’re feeling up to it, you surgeon will be in early, too, to talk about your injuries and healing.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost four-thirty in the morning.” She changed the whiteboard to reflect a new date. With another friendly smile, she left the room.

  Donnie turned his head and watched Arianna sleep.

  She loved him.

  Which was fucking miraculous, not to mention lifesaving.

  Because his chest was about to crack apart with loving her.

  The door opened again, and Nick stood in the wedge of light. Still in his tuxedo, though his tie was undone and the collar open. More than twenty-four hours later, he was still in his tux? He hadn’t left?

  “Donnie. I have someone with me. Can we come in?”

  Nick asking for permission was a weird phenomenon. “Yeah, of course.”

  Nick took a step back, and Carina came forward, into the room. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater; he was glad to think she hadn’t been camped out in a damn hospital for two nights and a day. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

  She let loose a little sob and ran to the bed. Without a word, she laid her head on his shoulder and cried. It hurt, but Donnie put his arms around her, wires and tubes and all, and held on.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay, Carina. I’m okay, too.”

  She shook her head against him. “I was so stupid! I got you hurt! You almost died!”

  “But I’m okay. I’ll be fine, and you’re safe. It’s all that matters.”

  “I love you,” she sobbed.

  “I love you, too, sweetheart. You’re my best girl.”

  “Cara,” Nick said, still standing near the door. “Come.”

  Carina pulled herself together. Sniffling, she planted a snotty kiss on his cheek and let him go. Nick opened the door and sent her back to the waiting room. Donnie knew by the way Nick glanced down the corridor that the hospital was full of Pagano guards. Probably every Pagano man they could spare was on the premises.

  Arianna had woken during that weepy scene. She sat on the cot, the blanket pooled at her hips. She wore the red dress she’d changed into for dinner after the ballet. She hadn’t left him.

  She stood now and came to the bed. “Hi.” Tears blurred her eyes.

  “Arianna.”

  Leaning down, she pressed quivering lips to his mouth. “I was so scared.”

  “I’m okay. Stella mia. Don’t you have dancing to do?”

  She smiled, and made a sound almost like a laugh. “Well, you see, there was this incident in the theatre after the premiere. A monster tried to kidnap a little girl, and a hero saved her. But there was gunfire, and a dead monster, and the hero got hurt, and ... The Nutcracker was canceled for the season.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry.”

  Now she truly did laugh, though the tears spilled from her eyes. “You dope. Don’t apologize for being the hero of the story. And now I’m off all month to be with you. If you want me with you.”

  He clutched her hand. “I do. Always.”

  At the door, Nick cleared his throat. “Ari, I need a minute with him.”

  She nodded, and kissed him again. “I love you. You astound me.”

  With a squeeze of his hand, she backed away. Donnie watched her pick up her shoes—the shoes she’d worn with the dress—and walk to the door. There, Nick cupped a hand around her face and kissed her forehead—a paternal gesture reserved for the women in his life for whom he felt protective affection: his wife, his daughters, Tina Pagano, Lara Pagano, and now, it seemed, Arianna Luciano.

  All the people the Bondaruks had made vile pictures of.

  When they were alone, Donnie said, “Did you get them?”

  “We did. It was a contract hit. No Bondaruks on the ground stateside, but they contracted the Zelenkos. Four man team—you got their lead man. I’ve got the others on ice at the harbor, waiting for me. Angie worked them, learned what they knew. Now that you’re out of the woods, I’ll render justice.”

  The Zelenkos were a Ukrainian bratva out of Brooklyn. In Ukraine, the Zelenkos and the Bondaruks were rivals. “Bondaruk made an alliance.”

  Nick nodded and came to the side of the bed. “The Zelenkos have been players in the States for decades. Yuri sold out to get his hands on New England.”

  “And us.”

  “And us.”

  “I guess it’s not a war with roaches anymore.”

  “They’re still roaches. But they mutated.”

  “Nick, I’m so sorry for pulling this down on you. I don’t know how to make it right.”

  The don set his hand on Donnie’s shoulder and squeezed. Donnie had a flash of powerful memory, of blinding white fog and grey shadows, and the strong hold of his friend.

  “Donnie. You saved my daughter when I did not. We’re in balance, my friend.”

  ~oOo~

  When Nick left, Donnie felt faint with pain and exhaustion, with relief and love, with uncertainty for the future and hope for his life. Alone in the room, he was lonely, but not sad. Because he loved and was loved. He was forgiven. He had faith and family. He had Arianna.

  He closed his eyes and floated on the spiky peaks of all that emotion. So much more than he’d let himself feel in so many years.

  The room was bright with day when he opened his eyes again. Arianna sat beside him, that cot-chair thing folded into its chair shape. She still wore her red dress, but she’d coiled her hair into its familiar bun and stuck a ballpoint pen through the knot. She was curled on the chair with her phone in her hand. He could see enough of the screen to know she was texting. The diamond earrings he’d bought her on a whim sparkled in her lobes.

  “I love you,” he said, for the first time in his life to a woman.

  She dropped her hands and turned to him. “Please?”

  It had been easier to say them when she wasn’t looking, but now that they were said, he embraced them. “I love you.” Remembering what she’d said to him, he added, “There isn’t any part of me that doesn’t love every part of you.”

  He’d made her cry again. She jumped up from her chair and leaned over the bed. Clasping his face in her hands, she kissed him, over and over again, on the mouth, the chin, the cheeks, right and left, his scars didn’t matter to her, they didn’t matter.

  “I love you! I love you!” she cried between each zinging touch of her lips to his skin.

  Being with him was dangerous for her. The Pagano Brothers were on the precipice of a war, and he was a general. But the danger was already all around her, inescapable. She’d taken on the brand of a Pagano woman on the first night she’d known him. Putting distance between them wouldn’t make her safer. Bringing her closer might.

  But that wasn’t why he felt what he felt right now, why he needed what he needed. The true reason was much simpler: Arianna.

  Lifting his hands—it hurt but he didn’t care—he caught her face, holding her as she held him, and said words that shook at the bars of their cage, crying for freedom. Terrifying words. Crucial words. This was a once-in-a-lifetime love. For him, that was certainly true. “Marry me, Arianna.”

  She gasped and went still, except for her eyes, which dived deep into his and searched. Then she smiled, and cried harder, and in the midst of all that soggy emotion cried, “Yes! Yes! I will!”

  ~ 22 ~

  A .44-caliber bullet had taken a slanting path through Donnie’s midsection, entering low on his abdomen, perforating his intestines and stomach, and stopping near his spine, at T10. The surgery to repair the damage had
gone through the whole of the night, and he’d been comatose and feverish most of the following day. For that day, no one was sure he’d survive, or in what condition he’d be if he did. Ari hadn’t felt so terrified since her mom’s death.

  But he’d woken early the next morning and been strong.

  When he was discharged this morning, eight days after the shooting, his doctor had professed astonishment at how well he was healing. No paralysis, and the buzzing and weakness in his legs improved daily. He’d been sent home with a wheelchair, but Dre had carried it into the house. Donnie had walked in on his own power, with only Ari’s arm to hold onto.

  Yes, he was astounding.

  Mrs. Alfonsi, his housekeeper, had set up the downstairs guest suite for him, since the stairs in his magnificent beach house were too much for him yet. Over the past couple days, as Ari had handled as much as she could to get ready for him to come home, she’d gotten to know Mrs. Alfonsi a little. She reminded Ari of her Aunt Anita—a soft, short, older Italian woman who liked to give out hugs and kisses and feed everyone who crossed her path. Did Donnie let her hug and kiss him? Or had she spent all these years that she’d worked for him building up a logjam of affection for her boss?

  Because she had a lot of affection for her boss. She spoke of him like he was her son, not her employer. Knowing that his own mother had disowned him when he’d been made, Ari wanted to squeeze this little housekeeper until she popped.

  Until the night he’d been shot saving Carina, and not counting the ubiquitous bodyguards, Donnie had always been alone when she saw him, and he didn’t speak much about his life. As guarded as he was, as cold as he’d first been, she’d thought he’d lived a solitary life. To some degree, she supposed he had—this big, beautiful house, sleek and a little cold, was only his. Beautiful as it was, it showed little sign of a robust life being lived inside it. Mrs. Alfonsi came five mornings a week and left for a home of her own five evenings a week. Her job was to be here. Otherwise, he’d been alone.

  But he was loved. Nick and Bev and their kids; other Pagano men, like Angie Corti and Trey Pagano; Mrs. Alfonsi—they loved him. And he loved them. The only part of his heart he’d kept on ice was the part that held romantic love.

  That, he’d given to her. Only to her.

  Curled at his side, she watched him sleep. Strong as he was, the ride from the hospital in Providence to Quiet Cove had made his pain flare up, and after Nick and Bev left, he’d taken a dose of Oxy.

  After a while, not tired at all, Ari eased off the bed and tiptoed out of the room. The house had a cozy warmth today she hadn’t noticed in her earlier visits, while Donnie was still in the hospital. The homey scent of fabric softener wafted from the laundry room. Mrs. Alfonsi came from the kitchen with a basket of folded clothes, and Ari went to meet her.

  “Do you mind if I take those?”

  The housekeeper frowned a little. “That’s all right, dear. You don’t know where things go, and it’s my job, after all.”

  But she wanted to know. Donnie had proposed to her. They were getting married someday, and she’d learned in these past couple days how much there was of him and his life she didn’t know. She hadn’t yet seen his actual bedroom, and there was a basket full of neatly folded socks and underwear before her—the keys to Donnie’s secrets.

  Some of that must have shown on her face, because Mrs. Alfonsi smiled and handed her the basket. “Come. You can carry it up for me, and I’ll show you where things go.”

  His house was modern and airy: pale wood floors, white walls, sleek metal and smooth wood and leather furnishings. The wall décor and other decorative accents were sparse and specific, and real art. If Ari had to guess, she thought Donnie had hired someone to decorate. Everything everywhere seemed carefully coordinated.

  The huge master bedroom, on the second of three floors, fit the aesthetic. Everything was ultra-modern, in a scheme of grey and black and white, with touches of teal for accent. The windows were uncovered, showing a breathtaking view of the cove the property sat on and the Atlantic beyond it. A large art piece—an abstract acrylic painting in shades of grey—was the only thing hanging on any wall.

  There was not a single photograph in his house.

  The frosted-glass door to the bathroom was open, and Ari went to look—the most spectacular bathroom she’d ever scene. All pearl-grey marble, floors and walls. The tub and shower shared a big room, closed off by seamless, clear glass. A wet room. The tub must have been three feet deep and eight feet long. The rest of the space was a double-sink—vessel sinks, of course—counter of the same marble, and a small room for the toilet.

  There was no mirror over the counter. In fact, the only mirror she’d seen in the house was in the guest bath downstairs.

  “Miss Ari,” Mrs. Alfonsi called from the closet. “Do you want to see where his things go?”

  They both knew she was really up here to snoop, but his closet was most definitely snoop-worthy, so she veered over to that frosted-glass door and, not surprisingly, walked into the closet of a wealthy man: huge, full of expensive clothes, and rigidly organized. Her vibe of shabby-chic clutter was probably exhausting for him.

  One wall was drawers and cubbies. The cubbies held sweaters and sweatshirts—she tried to imagine Donnie in a sweatshirt and failed. Mrs. Alfonsi was putting tidily rolled pairs of dark socks in a drawer arrayed with tidily rolled pairs of dark socks. Another drawer was open beside it, holding tidily folded boxer briefs, all in black.

  Ari brushed her hand over the sleeves of his bespoke suits, in fabrics soft as a whisper. Black, charcoal, light grey. Plain, pinstripe, tone-on-tone houndstooth.

  The only color in his closet were his dress shirts and ties. They embraced the rainbow and were organized by color.

  “Is he so controlled in everything?”

  She wasn’t really asking the question for an answer, and hadn’t intentionally said it out loud. But Mrs. Alfonsi closed the drawers firmly, almost a slam, and turned to her, obviously with something to say. She picked up the empty basket and said it.

  “Mr. Donnie is a sad man, Miss Ari. He’s been let down by people who never should have let him down. His own mamma. His own boy. I think he likes things the way he likes them because he knows they’ll always be there like they should be. He let you close, so he really loves you, and that’s a precious gift. I hope you don’t let him down, too.”

  “His own boy?” Donnie had a son? Was that what she meant?

  The housekeeper paled. “It’s not my place to tell you things about him. Excuse me.” Flustered, she pushed past Ari and left the closet, and then the bedroom.

  Ari stood in Donnie’s vast, perfect closet and tried to understand what she’d learned.

  She noticed that one of the large bottom drawers had rolled open a couple inches, probably when Mrs. Alfonsi had closed the others with some force. Channeling Donnie’s need for order, she bent to close it. A flash of bright yellow caught her eyes in this mostly monochrome space, and she pulled the drawer open instead.

  Ropes.

  Bright yellow. Bright red. White. Black. Cobalt blue. Green. Grey. Varying thicknesses, from gossamer strands to sturdy hanks. All of a silky, flexible weave, all wrapped neatly in similar bunches. One side of the deep drawer was sectioned off, and held folded lengths of black satin, and a few black satin sleep masks.

  It took her a second, but she got there.

  On a quick turn, she took in this wealthy man’s hyper-organized closet, and his hyper-styled, entirely impersonal bedroom.

  Holy shit.

  They were at the Fifty Shades of Grey chapter, apparently.

  But yeah, no. Nope. Not her playground.

  Adrenaline frothing her brain, Ari got down to some much more focused, and much less guilty, snooping. She went through every drawer and looked on every shelf and in every nook and cranny of that closet. She went through the few drawers in his bedroom. She checked the other rooms on the second floor, and went up to the third-floor l
oft, and didn’t breathe until she was sure she’d seen everything and hadn’t come upon a Red Room or a footlocker full of cat o’ nine tails.

  Just the ropes and blindfolds.

  In the bedroom closet of a man who had to control the way he was touched or seen.

  There was a sleek black bench in the second-floor hallway. Her emotions stampeding, Ari dropped onto it and stared at the blank white wall before her.

  For twenty years, he’d considered himself unworthy of love. Unworthy even to be looked on, even by himself.

  Mr. Donnie is a sad man.

  But he let her touch him, see him. Kiss him.

  He let you in, so he really loves you, and that’s a precious gift.

  Ari wiped her wet cheeks and got up. After a quick check to make sure she’d left everything the way he liked it, she went back down to Donnie. Her Donnie. Her love.

  ~oOo~

  He was coming out of the bathroom, holding onto the wall. His staples were still in and covered with gauze, and he looked tired and hurt, but strong and handsome, in his black pajama bottoms and nothing else.

  Ari went to him and cupped her hands around his face. Ignoring his bemused frown—but no flinch; he didn’t flinch at her touch anymore—she stared hard into his eyes. “I love you, Donnie. I love to touch you. I love to look at you. When I do, I see the beautiful, astounding man I love. I feel your strength, and I can’t wait to see and feel you every day of the rest of my life.”

  The bemusement became seriousness, and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Ari tipped his head down, rose off her heels, and kissed him.

  He kissed her back, matching her intensity, until his knees wobbled, and he broke away, gasping. Remembering that he’d been shot and nearly killed, Ari swept her arm gently around his waist and helped him back to bed.

  When she had him tucked in and had settled in bed beside him, he set his hand on her knee. “What brought that on?”

  “Just love for you,” she hedged.

  He gave her a keen look. “I love you. That’s all it was?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Still hedging. But there were important things to talk about here.