Chapter 93
Layla
In the week since Vanessa’s attack, I’d been to visit her every day after work.
I’d nestled her into a one-bedroom condo in Aldo’s safehouse, just a few blocks from the hospital. It was fully equipped and furnished, but the first night, I’d still brought back takeout.
The way she’d dug in, I knew she hadn’t had a square meal in a long time.
But after she’d looked up from her scraped-clean plate to regard me with still-hungry, haunted eyes, I’d opted to cook for her instead.
She didn’t just need a meal. She needed a home-cooked meal. Something wholesome and sustaining, made with care and intention. She needed someone to show her she truly wasn’t alone in the world anymore.
So, the second night, I made a stir fry. Cracked open a bottle of wine, and set a glass before her while I cooked.
“I’m originally from Upstate,” I told her, sipping on my own glass of chardonnay. “Moved out to Alaska for a bit, then came back here for my residency. Got sucked into the fast-paced city life, I guess.”
When I turned back, I found her listening intently, though she added nothing of her own story to the conversation. So I shared tales of Alaska—the wildness of the world, the soft tranquility of open space, the awe-inspiring beauty of the mountains.
The third night, I made hamburgers with sauteed vegetables. Another glass of wine made its way to her side.
“My dad used to make the best hamburgers,” I said. “He and my grandfather did a lot of grilling, especially in the summer.”
She stirred slightly at that, but merely sipped at her wine, still silent. So again, I talked. This time, I told her stories about growing up in Upstate—dirt bikes with my cousins, shooting in the woods, hunting with my Nonno.
The fourth night, I made pasta. Thick bolognese sauce, al dente spaghetti, garlic-ladened meatballs.
“My mother-in-law taught me how to make this meal.” I set a steaming plate down in front of her. “Can you cook at all?”
Her gaze snapped up from the mound of food in front of her. It was the first time since the clinic that I’d directly asked her anything. But it was such a simple question.
Can you cook?
Its answer meant nothing—people learned to cook in all kinds of ways, especially now in the days of the internet. But it still felt like a weighted question.
People didn’t typically learn to cook unless they had somewhere to cook. Somewhere safe to linger. A home of some kind.
“No.” Vanessa lifted her fork with trembling fingers. “My mother never taught me.”
“Mine, either.” I chewed slowly through a meatball. “She and my dad passed away when I was ten. More specifically, thy were killed after he refused to help a Mafia leader.”
Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and I realized that, of all the stories I’d shared over the past handful of days, this was the one she related to. Hers wasn’t a past like my early childhood—full of love and family and hope.
Her story was the later part of my life. Pain and grief. Violence. Suffering. Hard work. Nothing but our own quiet strength to carry us through the worst days.
“Your mom died when you were little, too.” It wasn’t a question, and the way she didn’t flinch from my gaze, I knew she understood. That we shared this critical piece of our life puzzles in common.
“Yes.” She dropped her gaze to twirl pasta around her fork. “When I was eight. I never knew my father, so I was raised by my grandmother or aunts, whoever was around.”
I nodded my understanding. “It’s not easy to feel like you’re just being passed around.”
I’d been lucky in that my Nonna had stepped in.
“No,” Vanessa agreed. “It’s not.”
“Did you ever find a place you belonged?” I asked, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. Instead, I reached for my wine, and she mimicked the gesture.
“I thought I had …” She drained the glass, and I lifted the bottle to refill it. “But I was wrong. Turned out, it was just another man who wanted to use me.”
The bitterness of her words struck a painful note inside my chest. “I know what that’s like, too.”
For eight long years, since the day Aldo had left me, I’d known exactly how that had felt. To think you’d found your everything, your home, your place and purpose in the world … only to have it all thrown back in your face, your whole world uprooted and burned down around you.
“Did you ever find your place?” Vanessa asked, those bright green eyes lifting back to me. “Where you belonged?”
“At the hospital,” I said, the words surprising me—that those were the ones I’d selected. “When I’d had my heart broken and my life torn down, the hospital gave me purpose.”
“Is that why you have that clinic?” Vanessa, again, surprised me with the question. “In the condo basement?”
“Yeah. And …” This time, I did reach for her hand. “I’d really like it if you joined me. Who knows. Maybe it’ll feel like your place, too. And for other women just like us.”
Over the following weeks, Vanessa and I slowly but surely began to establish a small clinic and safehouse in the basement of the condo building where I’d squirreled Vanessa away.
As I’d promised Aldo, I made sure his name stayed far from the project; it wouldn’t do to have victims thinking it was somehow associated with the Mafia. It meant things took longer, gathering supplies and equipment, getting the right people in to help when a project was bigger than Vanessa and I could tackle on our own.
I still worked at the hospital during the day, but at night, I’d arrive to find something new swept or cleaned or painted. Vanessa worked tirelessly, with the kind of dedication reserved for projects of true passion.
Slowly but surely, our clinic was transforming from a cold, barren basement to what felt more like a home than a hospital.
It was perfect.
“You’re really doing something good here,” Vanessa said one afternoon as she organized medical supplies on a shelf in the wide back room.
“We are,” I corrected, nudging another package of bandages into her hands. “You’ve done more work than I have.”
“More of the lifting and decorating, maybe?” Vanessa turned away before I could register the expression on her face. “But you’re the brains behind the operation.”
“Doesn’t make you any less important.” I leaned a shoulder against the shelf to study her turned back. “I wouldn’t have done this without you. Wouldn’t have had the courage.”
Vanessa turned halfway. “You don’t think so? I do. I think you’re one of the bravest people I know.”
“Brave.” I snorted, and this time it was my turn to look away. “Is it brave to soldier on when you’re trapped in a world you never asked for? Brave to bow your head when you should fight?”
“Hey.” Vanessa suddenly stood beside me, and this time it was her hand curled around mine. Her words soft with comfort. “We’re all stuck in places we don’t want to be. And fighting back isn’t always an option.”
“Sometimes we run,” I agree, tilting my gaze to meet hers. I couldn’t read her expression. “Sometimes, we hide.”
“Yes,” she said, green eyes drifting out of focus, before sharpening back on me. “And sometimes we fight back in other ways, like making an underground clinic to help people the world has turned its back on.”
“Yes. People like us.”
“People like us,” she agreed in a soft murmur.
