Reina de la Muerte

chapter thirty two

gabriel

It took three weeks to regain the strength to walk again.

My body may have been healed, but it had suffered severe injuries and had only recovered a month or two before I gained consciousness. It was excruciating knowing every day would require some form of assistance, whether or not it was a difficult task. I couldn't even find the strength to get to the washroom on my own—when I first woke, my pride nearly cost me my dignity in refusing help. But as the days dragged into weeks and I was offered more physical therapy was provided, I was back to grabbing my own things, running, and especially walking myself to the damn toilet.

"This one is from a shard of debris," the nurse, Marie, pointed out and gestured to the swollen pink welt in my shoulder blade. Her English was choppy and her accent thick, but I dealt with worse in the past. "We were surprised it didn't come out the other side of your body, that's how large it was."

I stared at my reflection for a few moments, taking in my new scars as well as the old. Though my body had made a full recovery, there were scars I was unfamiliar with. The new ones stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the faded ones scattered across my back, but they were scars nonetheless. I began counting each one, beginning at the base of my spine and working my way to my shoulder blades, chest and, finally, the first scar I received on the left side of my face. It was a disgusting one that protruded out of me like a mutant and stretches from the arch of my brow and eyelid, travelling down to my jawline.

Every time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wanted to cover it.

Its appearance, its story, was too ugly to be seen. But every time I took a glance at the stupid Michael Myers' mask Carter bought for me (and I hope it was bought as a joke), only one person's words stopped me from hiding in the shadows.

They're a part of you.

I heaved a sigh and pulled the white tee over my head.

It was only three weeks since I woke up. There were still six months of searching I had to make up for in finding my wife. To think she was locked prisoner for Lucía to control all this time. Stuck with an abusive mother and two brothers who were never around to begin with.

Was she doing well? Did she know I was alive? There was so much to catch up on and I'd been too busy learning how to fucking walk, I hadn't gotten an opportunity to speak with Vincenzo about Vanessa's kidnapping, nor had I spoken to him about the bomb he dropped on me about taking over my business. I needed to know what else has changed, who I was working with (or for), what my purpose here was. There was so much to think about and consider before taking any course of action, my head might as well have exploded.

"Where's Vincenzo?" I muttered, forcing myself away from the mirror. I turned to the elderly Italian woman with greying-black hair pulled into a low bun. "I need to speak with him."

My knee tremored as I took a step forward and it took all I have to bite back a curse when she rushed over to hold my arm. She guided me to the bed and helped me sit, garnishing me with pillows and blankets as if it wasn't already a thousand degrees in here.

"What about, signore?" Marie asked as she fluffed a pillow.

"Finding my wife."

* * *

The first thing to hit me when we entered the halls was the overwhelming stench of bleach and cleaning products. The dark-tiled floor was so vigorously cleaned, I could see a clear reflection of my scarred face. As Marie guided me through the building, I took my time assessing the large painted portraits and marble statues lining the blood-red walls, as though I was in a museum and not someone's house. The energy was impersonal and stoic, unlike the familiarity I felt when living in Colombia.