Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

The days blurred together.

Therapy in the morning. Medication every four hours. Nightmares every time Dante closed his eyes despite the sedatives. Rage boiling underneath every interaction.

The medications created a strange chemical environment. The painkillers made him numb. The anti-inflammatories made him spacey. The sedatives for sleep made him groggy when he woke. Combined, they created a fog where Dante couldn’t quite access the full force of his rage, which was probably the point.

”Your body’s going through a lot,” Luca explained on Day 5, checking the wound for infection. ”The medications are necessary to keep you functional and to prevent sepsis. But they do have cognitive side effects. You might feel slower. Might have trouble concentrating. Might feel emotional in ways you’re not used to.”

”I feel nothing,” Dante said flatly.

”You feel everything,” Luca corrected gently. ”You’re just too medicated to fully process it right now. That’s okay. Let yourself exist in that space for a few more days.”

But Dante didn’t want to exist in that space. Wanted to be sharp. Wanted to be dangerous. Wanted to be able to get up and walk and plan and execute revenge.

Instead, he was trapped in his own broken body, dependent on Luca for everything, watching days slip past while Dimitri moved unchecked in the world.

On Day 6, Dante threw a water glass across the room.

It shattered against the wall, and for a moment, there was absolute silence.

Then Luca calmly retrieved a dustpan and cleaned it up, without comment, without anger, without judgment.

That might have been worse than if he’d reacted.

On Day 8, The fever came on suddenly.

One moment Dante was lying in bed, and the next he was shaking with chills, sweat pouring off his body, his entire frame wracked with shivers.

”Infection,” Luca said, his voice sharp and focused. He was already moving, already examining the wound, already preparing antibiotics.

”No,” Dante said. ”No, I’ve been taking the antibiotics. I’ve been following protocol.”

”Sometimes infection happens anyway,” Luca said, his voice calm but his movements urgent. ”The human body is unpredictable. But we’ve caught it early, and we’ll treat it aggressively.”

The next 48 hours were hell.

The fever climbed. Dante’s dreams became violent and surreal. He couldn’t tell what was real and what was hallucination. Luca was always there, a constant presence, checking his vitals, adjusting medications, forcing fluids, speaking to him in a low voice even when Dante was too delirious to understand the words.

”You’re going to make it through this,” Luca said on the worst night, when Dante’s fever hit 104 degrees. ”You’re stronger than any infection. You’ve survived worse. This is nothing.”

But it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like his body was trying to kill him, like his own cells had turned against him, like recovery was a myth and death was the only honest ending.

On the morning of Day 10, the fever broke.

Dante woke soaked in sweat, his sheets drenched, his body exhausted beyond measure. But his mind was clear. The fever was gone.

Luca was asleep in a chair beside the bed, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, dark circles under his eyes.

The man hadn’t left his side for two days.

***

Day 11

”The infection’s cleared,” Luca confirmed, examining the wound with fresh gauze. ”You got lucky. Another 24 hours and it could have turned into sepsis.”

Dante said nothing. Just stared at the ceiling, processing what it meant to almost die. To be brought back from the edge by sheer luck and Luca’s obsessive care.

”You’re going back to therapy today,” Luca said. ”Your body’s recovered enough. We need to restart the rehabilitation.”

”I’m not ready.”

”I know,” Luca said. ”That’s exactly why you need to start.”

The therapy was harder after the infection. Dante’s body had used up reserves he didn’t know he had fighting off the fever. Every movement was a battle against exhaustion and weakness and the insidious voice in his head saying: You’re broken. You’re finished. You’ll never be what you were.

But he moved anyway.

Small movements. Tiny gains. Day after day, pushing through pain and fear and the genuine uncertainty of whether his body would ever be fully functional again.

***

In two weeks.

Dante was on crutches. Not gracefully. Not quickly. But he was vertical. Was moving under his own power.

Looking at himself in the mirror for the first time since the warehouse, Dante barely recognized the man staring back.

He’d lost weight. Significant weight. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow. Scars marked where the bullets had entered and exited. Bruises painted his ribs in shades of purple and yellow.

He looked broken.

”You’re stronger than you think,” Luca said from the doorway. ”The mirror lies to people in recovery. It shows them what was lost, not what was gained.”

”What did I gain?” Dante asked bitterly. ”Pain? Limitations? The knowledge that I’m not invincible?”

”Experience,” Luca said. ”Knowledge that you can survive things you thought would kill you. Understanding of your own body’s capabilities. Respect for what it takes to recover.”

”I don’t want respect for recovery. I want to be functional.”

”You will be,” Luca said. ”But it’s going to take time. And in the meantime, you need to accept that your body has limits. That accepting those limits isn’t weakness....it’s strategy.”

Dante wanted to argue. Wanted to reject the entire premise of limitation and recovery and accepting that he wasn’t invincible.

But he was tired. Tired in a way that went deeper than physical exhaustion.

”How much longer?” he asked quietly.

”Until you can walk without crutches? Another week or two if you keep pushing. Until you’re back to full capability? A month. Maybe six weeks if we’re being conservative.”

A month to six weeks.

The timeline seemed impossible. Seemed like a lifetime when there was a war to be fought and Dimitri was out there getting stronger and Isabella was waiting in Rome and everything was falling apart in slow motion.

But Luca was right about one thing: accepting the timeline was strategy.

Because a month of healing now meant six months of full capability later.

And Dante was going to need full capability to do what he was planning.