Hate that I want him to touch me but my body won't let him.
We eat in silence. Or he eats while I pick at my food.
"Rafa identified two more Costello locations," Marco says. "We're moving on them tomorrow."
More death. More violence. More blood on my hands.
"Vito wants to know if you're ready to give a statement," he continues. "About what happened. For the family records."
"No."
"Elena—"
"I said no." My fork clatters against the plate. "I'm not ready to talk about it. I don't know if I'll ever be ready to talk about it."
Marco nods slowly. "Okay. I'll tell him."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. You say you're not ready, then you're not ready." He takes my plate even though I've barely touched the food. "No one's going to force you."
But it feels like they are. Like everyone's waiting for me to get better. To be ready. To make decisions about Ronan and my father and everything else.
And I don't know how to tell them that I might never be ready.
That night, I can't sleep. Again.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. In that cell. In that warehouse. Feeling things I can't remember but know happened.
Around two a.m., I give up trying. I slip out of bed and pad through the apartment. Marco's asleep, his breathing deep and even.
I should wake him. But I don't want to be managed right now. Don't want him watching me with those concerned eyes.
I make my way into the living room, as far away from Marco's bedroom as possible. I step towards the floor to ceiling windows. We're up so high. The city sprawls below me—millions of lights twinkling in the darkness. From up here, everything seems small. Manageable.
From up here, I can almost pretend I'm okay.
My breathing picks up. The panic starts creeping in at the edges—that familiar tightening in my chest that means I'm about to lose it.
I pace. Back and forth. Trying to outrun the feeling. But it follows me. Closes in.
"Elena."
I spin around. Marco's there. Must have woken up and found me gone.
"I couldn't sleep," I say quickly. "I wasn't—I'm fine."
He takes a step closer and I take a step back. "Don't."
"I'm not going to?—"
"Just don't!" My voice is too loud. Too shrill. "Don't come closer. Don't ask if I'm okay. Don't?—"
He reaches for me—instinct, concern—and something in me snaps.
I shove him. Hard. "I said don't touch me!"
But he's not touching me anymore. He stepped back immediately. And now I can't stop.
