Chapter 7 - THE FIRST TIME I SAID NO
I left the hospital two weeks after the mountain incident.
My doctors approved a carefully monitored recovery plan.
My wrist remained immobilized.
My ribs still hurt.
The concussion symptoms were improving.
And my pregnancy continued under close medical supervision.
I was grateful.
Terrified.
Exhausted.
And determined never again to let another person make every decision for me.
Damien offered me a guest suite at his Colorado property.
I refused.
He looked surprised.
"It's secure."
"I know."
"There's medical support nearby."
"I know."
He studied me.
"Then why?"
I took a breath.
"Because I just escaped a husband who controlled where I went, what I signed, and who I spoke to."
Damien remained silent.
I continued.
"I don't want to move from one powerful man's house into another."
His expression softened.
"Fair."
I blinked.
That was it?
No argument?
No explanation about how unreasonable I was being?
He continued.
"Your attorney can help arrange a safe place independent of me."
I stared.
"You're not offended?"
"No."
He smiled faintly.
"Although my house has excellent coffee."
I laughed unexpectedly.
It hurt my ribs.
He looked concerned.
"Are you all right?"
I nodded.
"Don't make me laugh."
His smile widened.
"I'll attempt restraint."
With help from my attorney and victim-support professionals, I moved into a confidential short-term apartment.
It had one bedroom.
A small kitchen.
A view of the mountains.
And a couch that looked as though it had survived three generations of college students.
I loved it.
Not because it was beautiful.
Because it was mine to occupy without owing anyone affection in return.
Damien visited only when invited.
He brought groceries sometimes.
Books.
A ridiculous number of oranges.
And once, a stuffed rabbit for the baby.
I stared at it.
"She's not born yet."
He looked embarrassed.
"I know."
I smiled.
"Then why?"
He shrugged.
"I saw it."
I laughed.
He smiled faintly.
For a man who reportedly terrified half of Chicago, Damien could be astonishingly awkward.
One evening, we sat in my kitchen drinking tea.
I looked at his tattoos.
"Can I ask something?"
He nodded.
"Of course."
"Are you really a mafia boss?"
His expression changed.
He considered the question.
Then answered honestly.
"Yes."
I looked down.
"Do you hurt people?"
A long silence followed.
He didn't invent a comforting answer.
"My organization has been involved in crimes. I've made decisions I'm not proud of."
I swallowed.
"Then why did you save me?"
He looked directly into my eyes.
"Because you needed help."
I studied him.
Then whispered, "That's not enough to make you a good man."
Damien nodded.
"I know."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he said something unexpected.
"Your mother told me something when I was a child."
I looked up.
"What?"
"That people aren't defined by the worst thing they've ever done if they're willing to take responsibility and change."
My eyes filled.
He continued.
"But she also said change isn't a speech. It's what you do afterward."
I smiled sadly.
"That sounds like her."
Damien looked toward the window.
"I've spent years wondering whether she'd be proud of me."
I considered him.
Then said quietly, "Maybe you should start doing things she'd be proud of."
He laughed once.
A surprised sound.
Then nodded.
May you like
"Perhaps I should."
---
