Home > Scarred Regrets : A Dark Mafia Romance(47)

Scarred Regrets : A Dark Mafia Romance(47)
Author: Adelaide Forrest

She struggled, the professional mask taking effort to slide into place.

“You make sure he spends the rest of his life behind bars,” she said finally, turning to Irina’s father with hatred blazing on her face. She was an older woman, her hair graying at the temples and her face weathered by the stories and traumas she’d undoubtedly lived through her patient’s memories.

“He won’t live long enough to see the inside of a jail cell,” I said, making her attention snap back to me.

She swallowed, shaking her head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, in the interest of the world being a far better place without men who would do this in it. How’s she coping?” she asked, pulling a bottle of pills out of her purse and handing it to me.

I took it, nodding toward Irina on the bed. “Why don’t you ask her yourself? Time to stop playing dead, Little Butterfly,” I said, touching the top of her foot through the blankets. She peeled her eyes open, hatred filling them the moment that defiant gaze landed on me.

Good. I would take her hatred over her numbness any day.

“Irina?” Doctor Lawrence asked, making my butterfly finally turn her attention to the psychiatrist I suspected knew her better than anyone—knew the inner workings of Irina’s mind better than I could ever hope to know.

“I’m fine,” Irina said, the flatness in her voice raising the hair on my arms in warning. There was something so dejected to it, so empty, that I sat on the foot of the bed and ran a hand over her shin. The gentle touch did nothing to bring any of the fire back to her eyes, and she stayed the blank version of herself.

“I’ve known you since you were a girl,” Doctor Lawrence said, raising a brow at Irina. “I think I know you better than that.”

Irina’s face pinched, her mouth tensing as her eyes filled with the threat of tears. She screwed them shut, shoving down the emotion to whatever place she was using to keep her trauma away. She shook her head, raising her good arm to press her hand to her mouth. “She needs to allow herself to feel what happened so that she can process it,” Doctor Lawrence said. “That may take time. Sometimes patients with this level of physical trauma aren’t able to process the emotional damage while their body handles the physical healing.”

“So we just let her be, in the meantime? Let her stay practically catatonic?” I asked, feeling my other fist clench at my side. The thought of letting Irina suffer inside her head endlessly, of leaving her to her own recovery and not being able to help her through it, was an agony I didn’t think I’d survive.

“Keep a close eye on her. Give her reassurance that you’re all here for her when she’s ready, but healing has to come on her terms. Anything forceful will only traumatize her further,” she said, then turned her attention to Irina. “There’s no right or wrong way to recover from something like this, Irina. You just tell us what you need to help you along.”

She finally opened her eyes again, glancing to where the Doctor studied her intently. “Don’t want to sleep,” she mumbled, shaking her head.

“She’s been having violent nightmares,” I explained, continuing to rub soothing circles over her leg.

“That’s to be expected. I’ll get her something to help her sleep that should keep the worst of the night terrors away. Okay Iri?” she asked, and she smiled softly when Irina nodded.

“She still isn’t eating,” Ivory offered from the doorway. “I can barely get her to sip water and broth.”

“If that persists, call me in a couple of days. We’ll get someone out to address your nutritional concerns,” she said, pulling a blank notebook and a pen from her bag. She placed it on the nightstand. “In case you want to write things down instead of talking, Irina. Sometimes it helps.”

Irina didn’t respond, turning her head away from the notebook I hoped she would use one day. Doctor Lawrence asked Ed and I to join her in the hall, and we moved to do just that.

I hated to leave her alone, but Ivory stepped in to fill the gap as I emerged into the hallway where Dr. Lawrence had already begun speaking. “Make sure she doesn’t have access to any sharp objects. Her tendency to self-harm when she’s overwhelmed is a concern for me. Medication should be carefully administered. She isn’t in the right frame of mind, and an accidental overdose wouldn’t be unlikely.”

“Do you think she’s at risk of suicide?” Ed asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

“I can’t say for certain. Irina has never expressed consistent suicidal thoughts to me in the past, but that doesn’t mean a trauma like this couldn’t be enough to drive her to that point. My advice would be to make sure she’s watched closely until she’s through the worst of the immediate aftermath, but know that she has a long road to recovery ahead of her.”

“Thank you,” Ed said, leaving me to nod a goodbye to her as she walked down the stairs.

“Can you sit with her for a while? I need to do something, but—”

“Of course. I’ll stay until you’re ready,” Ed said, stepping into the bedroom with Irina and Ivory.

I needed to get the fuck away before I did something I regretted.

 

 

38

 

 

SCAR

 

 

Three more days passed in the same pattern. I spent my nights and mornings with Irina, only leaving her side on the rare occasion that Ivory needed to leave the estate, but she was more than happy to stay home so that I could be with Irina as much as possible.

The rising tensions in Chicago made venturing out into the city itself a nightmare. To top it all off, Matteo’s restrictions increased every time she tried, to the point that it became a nuisance.

In the late afternoon, I went to the gym to work off my stress and my frustration with the fact that there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t push Irina to open up to me. Couldn’t press her to work through the trauma that she wasn’t ready to handle.

All I could do was wait, and that was something I did not have the patience for. Especially not while watching her wither in on herself, and while knowing that she was better off without someone broken like me at her side.

“How’s she doing?” Enzo asked, stepping up to the bag next to me. His fist struck against it, the sound of his knuckles rapping in quick succession filling the silence as I fought for my breath. Sweat dripped down my face, and I raised a hand to wipe it clear.

“How the fuck do you think she’s doing?” I asked, snapping at him even if I didn’t intend to. The ridiculousness of a question like that settled over me, building the rage inside me until I felt like I would explode.

All of the Bellandi women had been in danger at one point. All of them had been threatened with abuse or rape.

But only my woman had been the one to suffer in such a way.

I hated the bitterness that had taken root inside my skin, flooding through me like something insidious meant to turn me against the only family I had. Didn’t Irina have enough to deal with already?

Why had my butterfly been saved less quickly than their women? Would she have been more worthy of saving if I’d been one of them?

“Easy,” Enzo said, raising his hands defensively. “You know I’m just hoping she’s at least healing physically.”

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