Chapter 7: Legal Wounds & Sunset Truths
The slanting evening light through Sergio’s panoramic windows turned the sterile white of Alma’s bandages a soft gold, but did nothing to soften the raised, angry lines peeking from the edges. Enzo Bellini stood in the vast living room, a manila envelope held like a dead weight in his hands, his usually unflappable composure fractured as he took in the damage. “Christ, kid,” he finally rasped, his voice gravelly. “This was never in the job description.”
Alma accepted the envelope, her movements still careful. “Neither was learning to dodge manic fans,” she said, her tone light, almost conversational, as she tapped the restraining order papers inside with a bandaged finger. “But here we are.”
She didn’t understand yet. The doctors had explained it two days prior in the cold, bright consultation room, their voices carefully neutral. The deepest gashes, the ones to the dermis, would scar. Permanently. Even with expert intervention later, the evidence would remain visible. Alma had just nodded, her expression politely blank, as if they were discussing the weather forecast for a city she’d never visit. Sergio, however, had felt each clinical word like a physical blow to his solar plexus. The air left his lungs in a silent rush. He’d stumbled back from Alma’s bedside, a hand flying to his own face as if mirroring her wounds, before turning and shoving his way out into the hallway. His vision swam, the walls tilting. Pierre and Lando, lingering near the nurse’s station, caught him by the elbows as his knees buckled, guiding him to a plastic chair where he slumped forward, gasping into his hands. Inside the room, the WAGs—Kelly, Carmen—closed ranks around Alma, their voices soft shields against a reality she wasn't ready to absorb. She’d asked one of them for a lip balm, her focus absurdly small.
Now, in the penthouse, Enzo watched her serene ignorance with a pained comprehension. Sergio stood rigid by the window, his back to them, still haunted by the memory of his own collapse. “The legal part is done,” Enzo said, clearing his throat, forcing business back into his tone. “She’s prohibited from coming within five hundred meters of you, of any event you’re attending, of this building.”
“Good,” Alma said, setting the envelope aside on the sofa as if it were a takeaway menu. She looked past Enzo, her gaze settling on the breathtaking, indifferent expanse of the darkening sea.
She looked past Enzo, her gaze settling on the breathtaking, indifferent expanse of the darkening sea. Enzo cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. “Rest, kid,” he said, his eyes avoiding her scars as he turned for the door.
The latch clicked shut behind him, leaving a void filled only with the whisper of central air. Sergio moved first, crossing the room to the minimalist kitchen. He filled a glass with water, his back to her, buying a moment to compose his face.
“You didn’t take your afternoon dose,” he stated, returning with the water and two capsules. He placed them on the low table between them. “The anti-inflammatory. It’s not optional.”
Alma’s fingers, still marked with faint bruising, picked up the pills. “I forgot,” she murmured, swallowing them with a small sip. “The days blur together in this place.”
“That’s the point,” he said, sitting carefully on the sofa’s edge, not quite touching her. “No stairs, no paparazzi, no static.” He reached for the opaque jar of silicone gel on the side table. The lid twisted off with a soft pop.
“Time for this,” he said, his voice deliberately casual. He dabbed a pearl-sized amount onto his index finger, the gel cool and scentless.
Alma leaned her head back, exposing the healed but livid tracks on her cheek and neck. His touch was precise, applying the gel along the raised tissue with a pressure so gentle it was almost imaginary. She held her breath, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his focus entirely on his task. “Not the application,” she clarified softly. “The… remembering.”
His hand stilled for a second. He resumed, his touch tracing the longest scar, the one from her temple. “The remembering is the worst part,” he agreed, his words barely audible.
He finished, recapping the jar. His hand, now empty, hovered for a moment before settling, warm and solid, over hers on the cushion. The city lights began to glitter far below, tiny and remote.