Page 28 of Enzo
I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, it is. Tell me, do you really think I could keep up with a twenty-one-year-old mafia heir? One who has a knack of getting himself into trouble because he’s brilliant, stubborn, and unwilling to let us put our lives on the line for his, even though that’s our literal job. I’m not an idiot. I didn’t get into this profession expecting to make it to old age, my days were numbered as it was. I was only going to get older, and then what? What good would I have been when my reaction times were a fraction too slow? We all know the drill, eventually we either get too old or we die in the line of duty.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arm across his chest. “Were you hoping to die, then?”
“What?”
He shrugs. “Early retirement by normal society standards or death, that’s what you said. So, were you hoping to die, rather than having to endure being forced out of a job I can see you’re passionate about simply by the inflection in your voice and the frustration on your face?”
My entire body flushes at how easily he’s called me out, though he doesn’t gloat, or even make an indication that he knows he’s got me.
“What about significant others? Family? It appears your career is a tough subject, so if it makes you uncomfortable, we can circle back to it, but I want to reassure myself you have support—other than just Doc.”
I laugh, a real one this time. “How well do you know Doc?”
“We went to school together. And yes, he was just as much of an asshole then as he is now. Our paths diverged when he went on to medical school and I chose to focus on psychology, but I’ve worked with a few people who also work with the Amato Family, and with the help of another old school friend was able to set Doc up with his own therapist back in school.”
I nod. “I was Doc’s bodyguard for a year. He was my first big job, actually. I remember escorting him to his appointments.”
“Anyway, when he reached out and said he had a rather…special case he wanted me to work on personally, I had a hard time refusing. My books are filled, but for Doc, I was willing to listen. He knew me before and after I lost my arm.” Dr. Madison grimaces. “I was a stupid rich kid, thought I was invincible, that the rules of nature couldn’t touch me.” He meets my eyes. “You can ask, I don’t mind. I’ve had years to come to terms with the depths of my idiocy.”
“I don’t want to intrude. I’m… not sure how I’d feel if some stranger asked me what happened to me on our first meeting.”
“I can admire that. But remember, everyone is different, and yes, some people are going to have lingering trauma, but so long as you’re respectful and accept that no means no, no one will give you any grief. Ignoring it, especially if it’s obvious you’re staring, can sometimes cause more awkwardness. I can tell you from personal experience, I’d rather be asked or be allowed to talk about my story so we can move on and get over it.”
I swallow and shift uncomfortably. “I’m not there yet.”
“Understandable. You may never be. It’s perfectly valid to say ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ especially to people who aretoo nosy for their own good.” When I don’t respond, he asks, “Do you feel as if you need to be open about your accident and injury?”
“If you’re asking whether I’m being pressured…yes and no. My partner knows what happened. He also works for the Family—in a different capacity, though—and he’s been by my side the entire time. Obviously the Boss knows, Doc knows…hell, it’s safe to say the entire Family does. But talking about how I’m doing, admitting to the lack of what I used to be capable of… it twists me up. I don’t know how to get past the idea that everything has changed.”
“But it has,” he replies. “There’s no going back, no changing it. The only thing you can do is control how you respond to the various feelings that run through you. I’m not telling you to move on—that’s hard to do when you have to live with the evidence of what happened your entire life—but you can move forward. I promise. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but I will be here to help you crawl out of whatever lies the despair is telling you. You have a partner, yes? What about other family?”
I swallow against the uncomfortable truth of his words as I answer him. “No family aside from Kail’s. My birth family…they disowned me when I was fifteen. They didn’t approve of me being bisexual. Kail’s family has been great, though. They didn’t hesitate to adopt me as one of their own.”
“And what about now? Have they shown anything less than unconditional love?”
Shame fills me as I reply. “I haven’t let them visit. I…couldn’t face them. Not their compassion, or pity, or assurance that this changes nothing wheneverythinghas changed.”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “Everything has changed, and with it, not only the way you assume people are going to perceive you, but the way you perceive yourself. I want you to think about that for next time. From speaking with you today, I can sense youridentity has been tied with your career for a very long time, and now you say you no longer have that, so it’s compounding how you feel about your accident. So I want you to think about how you see yourself, how your perspective has changed, and how you fear people are going to see you. You can write it down if you need to…order your thoughts however you want. If you need anything before our next appointment, you can call, email, text me. Until then, you have your homework.”
“Thank you.”
We sign off and I take the first full breath as soon as the screen goes dark. That was…a lot. Not at all how I thought it was going to go, but I feel wiped out, as if I just ran for ten miles while dodging bullets or something, rather than sitting on my ass for an hour talking about things I’d rather not think about. And now I have fuckinghomework. Shit.What has Doc gotten me into?
Walking into my sister’s house is like walking into a damn nursery. She may not be able to cook, but Lara has the green thumb the rest of us didn’t get.
“Please tell me you ordered food,” I say as I enter the living room.
Lara doesn’t look up from where she’s tending to one of the plants hanging from the ceiling near the front window. “Hi. Nice to see you too, baby brother.”
“Hi, only sister. How are you doing? Did you order food?” I say as deadpan as I can.
Lara snorts and snips something off the plant she’s messing with. “Should be here in a few minutes.”
“Great.” I toss myself onto the sofa and watch as my sister putters around the room, adjusting this or that plant, pruning one back, or snipping a stray something or other off another.
I honestly don’t know how she has the patience needed to care for so many different plants at one time, but she claims it helps her relax, and I suppose that’s all that matters.
Unlike the rest of my family, Lara doesn’t work for the Amatos. She grew up the same way I did, understood at a very young age that life wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, but decided she didn’t want any part of it except for how she could support us.
