Closer to the Edge

Paul woke up the next morning to the sound of some really cheesy classic rock station blaring at a volume that was most definitely not acceptable for, well, whatever time it was. Out of instinct, he swung his arm over to silence it, before letting out a squeal that he didn’t even know he could produce. Okay, yeah, he definitely forgot about his wrist. But yeah, that reminded him. He sat up in bed quickly, biting back another curse when he remembered that, yeah, his ribs weren’t feeling too hot either.

“Shit, are you okay?” Rowan asked, running out of the bathroom and sitting on the bed next to him.

“Yes,” Paul muttered through gritted teeth. “Fucking forgot about broken bones,” he said, rubbing his sore wrist.

Rowan rolled her eyes. “How in the hell did you forget?”

“I don’t know,” he told her. “I actually got a good night of sleep and that wasn’t the first thing in my mind when I woke up to that trash on the radio.”

Rowan leaned over and flipped the radio on, turning it down a little bit, and frowning at him. “Pantera is not trash. I should slap you for that.”

“It’s trash,” Paul repeated.

“You’re trash!”

Paul smiled.

Rowan groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’re just trying to annoy me,” she stated, “and it will not work. I’m going to get dressed. You should get up and do the same.”

“I don’t have anything to change into,” Paul told her.

“I have some gym shorts and a shirt that’s probably big enough. We’ll worry about that after we meet with my father. Now come on, you have to look presentable,” she told him, standing up from the bed and walking over to her dresser. She pulled out a pair of black gym shorts and one of her old Harley-Davidson shirts that she stole from her dad (many years before) and tossed them to him.

Paul tossed them aside and pulled the blankets back over his chest. “I will in a few minutes,” she told him.

Rowan rolled her eyes and walked over to the bed, pulling the blanket off of him. “You will now. You can sleep later, Paul. We have to talk to my father.”

“Do you really think he’s going to agree to help me? I kidnapped you.”

“And you saved me and brought me back and all that good stuff,” Rowan said with a wave of her hand. “And yes. I really do think he will. Or are you forgetting that I’m his only little girl?”

“You’re going to manipulate your father into helping me?” he asked incredulously.

She sighed. “Why is everyone using the term ‘manipulation’? It’s so crass. I’m simply appealing to his business sense, for the last time. I know my father and I know how to word things to get his attention. It’s going to work, I promise you,” she told him, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before she walked back to her dressers. She pulled out a pair of dark blue jeans and a v-neck before disappearing into the bathroom to change. She quickly applied a little bit of eyeliner before changing her lip rings so she could clean the ones she had been wearing for the past few days. When she walked back out of the bathroom, Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to remove his black shirt and failing. “Need a little bit of help?”

Paul groaned, his arm falling back to his side and he glared over at her. “I can do it.”

“Okay,” Rowan said, leaning against the door frame and watching him as he struggled for a couple more minutes. “How about now?” she asked.

“I can do it,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Alright.” Rowan kept her eyes on him as he continued to struggle and she sighed; of course men had to be ridiculously obstinate. She walked over to her vanity and pulled out a pair of scissors from the drawer, walking over and kneeling in front of the bed. “Lift up your arms,” she instructed.

Paul did so, but not without another glare.

Rowan held the fabric between her two fingers and then proceeded to cut the length of the thick cotton from neck to waist, then each arm. The fabric fell to the bed and she gathered it up, tossing it into the waste basket. “This shirt won’t help at all,” she said, tossing the shirt aside and walking over to her closet to pull out a plain black zip-up hoodie. She helped him insert his arms into the sleeves before zipping it up and smoothing it over his shoulders. “Better?” she asked.

“I could’ve done it myself.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” she told him, giving him an once-over. “Go into the bathroom, I need to clean your face.”

“Okay, mother,” Paul said, standing slowly and following her into the bathroom. He sat down on the edge of the large tub (a Jacuzzi tub, he noticed, and okay, he was a little jealous) and allowed her to take a warm washcloth to his face, wiping off all of the dirt. If he were being completely honest, he would’ve admitted that the whole maternal-instinct thing she had going on wasn’t as bothersome as he would’ve liked to think, rather he found himself enjoying it, considering he had lost his mother when he was seven years old. But no, no, he wouldn’t admit that at all.

“There you go,” Rowan said softly before wringing out the washcloth in the sink.

“Thank you.”

Rowan smiled, just barely. “You’re welcome.”

“No, for—for all of this,” Paul corrected himself. “Just…thank you.”

Rowan looked over her shoulder at him. “Let’s just…say that we’re both thankful, yeah?”

The corner of Paul’s lips lifted and he nodded. “Good idea.”

“I’m full of them,” she muttered facetiously.

“Is your dad gonna hate me?” he asked.

“I sure hope not,” Rowan told him. “But truth be told, I have no idea. I hope he doesn’t, and I really hope that he’ll help you. Because if not, you’re fucked.”

Paul nodded. “Yeah, I will be severely fucked,” he commented. “Should we start thinking of a plan B, just in case?”

“Not just yet. There’s still hope,” she said. “Come on, let’s go get Martin and Ash.”

With another nod, Paul stood up slowly, reaching out for Rowan’s hand to steady himself. Their eyes met but he didn’t speak; neither did Rowan, she simply led him out of the bathroom, walking slowly so as not to rush him. Paul would briefly hold onto the wall, pause for a minute, but he always took the next step. And five minutes later, they were outside Martin and Ash’s door, Rowan’s hand on the handle when he stopped her.

“If you ever learn one thing from me, Rowan, let it be that you knock first, and wait at least two minutes,” he told her.

Rowan looked up at him, her dark eyes wide. She had heard him serious before, but this was beyond that. “Have you been scarred?”

Paul nodded, staring at the door before knocking. “It’s not something you want to see. I promise you that.”

Rowan smiled.

“It’s not smile-worthy, I promise you. Don’t laugh at my pain,” Paul told her.

Rowan laughed softly. “I doubt it was that traumatizing.”

The door flew open and Martin stood there, pulling on a shirt. “It was that traumatizing for him, I promise. But it mainly arose from jealousy that Ash gets my dick and he doesn’t,” he told her.

Ash slapped him on the back of the head. “Shut up, Martin. Good morning,” she greeted with a smile.

“It’ll be good once we get this figured out,” Rowan told her. “Let’s get this started.”

+

Nicolo was pacing across the length of the dining room when he heard footsteps. His head whipped around and he pushed his dark hair behind his ears, watching as his daughter and three other people came into view. His first thought was relief—she had stayed (or, rather, she hadn’t been taken again) and his second thought was to get her away from…Paul as quick as he could. He snapped his fingers towards one of the guards waiting by the door and pointed to Paul.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed at the guard and waved him off. “I got this,” she told him, leading Paul to the closest chair and helping him sit down. She trusted her dad, but not his guards—not exactly. “You good?”

Paul nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Rowan shrugged one shoulder before looking up at her dad. “Dad, this is Paul, Martin, and Ash,” she introduced, pointing to each person respectively.

Nicolo nodded. “So, which one of you took my daughter?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

Rowan rolled her eyes. “Father.”

“I deserve to know.”

“I told you everything last night,” she told him through gritted teeth. “Let’s not do this right now.”

Paul slowly lifted a hand, his other still pressing against his ribs. “It was me, sir.”

“Paul—“

Nicolo walked over and sat down in the chair next to him. “It was you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And were you also the one who decided to get her out of there?”

Paul nodded. “Yes, sir. And I understand if you hate me—if someone took my daughter, even if he brought her back safe, I would probably want to rip his head off with my bare hands. And I would want to do so even more if he showed up at my house asking for help.”

Nicolo smiled, just barely. “You described what I’m feeling perfectly well.”

“For what it’s worth, I won’t apologize, Mr. Delvecchio,” Paul told him.

Nicolo’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

Paul shrugged off the thought that he looked just like his daughter right then. “Because it had to happen for me to realize what my father was doing. A lot of people got hurt along the way, and I will apologize for putting her in danger. But I made sure she was safe every step of the way,” he told her.

“What do you want, Mr. DiGiovanni?”

“I want your help, though I know I’m undeserving,” Paul told him. “I’ve been lied to my entire life. And I want to do something about it.”

“You want to bring your father down just because he lied?” Nicolo asked.

Paul shook his head. “No, not just because of that—for so many reasons. He took your child away from you, he took my mother away from me, he took my childhood, he—“ he paused and shook his head. “There are a lot of reasons, Mr. Delvecchio. And I know that you have your own for wanting the same thing.”

Nicolo nodded slowly, watching the young man’s face for any sort of sign that he was lying. “Why did you save my daughter?”

Paul paused, glancing from Nicolo to Rowan; he didn’t really understand the meaning of the question. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t—Would you have rather I let her die?”

“I’m simply asking a question, Mr. DiGiovanni. You could have sent her to your father and get put in his good graces for a decent amount of time.”

“Father, I don’t see why that’s important,” Rowan interjected.

“It’s important, Rowan,” Nicolo said, “trust me.”

“I just didn’t think it was fair that she should die for my father’s greed,” Paul told him.

Nicolo nodded, accepting that as a valid answer. “Now, where do I come into the picture?”

“First, we need proof that my father—“ Paul started, but he was interrupted.

“First, you need a doctor, and we all need an actual meal,” Rowan said. “And long, warm showers. We can talk business after lunch and after our family physician has looked over you.”

“Dammit, Rowan, I’m fine,” Paul said.

“Okay,” Rowan said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Walk across the room.”

“Rowan!” Martin whispered, shaking his head. “Bad idea.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Paul snapped. “You want me to walk across the room? Fine,” he said, placing his good hand on the chair and slowly standing up. He flinched but didn’t stop, and when he took the first step forward, his knee gave out.

Martin rushed over, supporting his best friend’s weight, and he glared at Rowan. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

“And I told him that he needed a doctor. I believe I’ve proved my point,” Rowan said.

“You’re insane,” Paul muttered.

Rowan smiled softly. “Don’t be bitter, Poolie. Now sit down and eat your lunch. The doctor will be over later,” she told him, walking to the other side of the table and sitting down.

Nicolo stood and resumed his place at the head of the table, sending Rowan an affectionate smile.

Yup, she was definitely his daughter.