Chapter 4 #2
Behind me, the heated discussion between the don and Capo Tiziano over some sort of property lease is proving helpful in masking my approach.
Drowning out the sound of my steps. Not sure about the pounding of my heart, however.
It’s beating faster and louder the nearer I get.
Maybe I’ll get lucky… Maybe I will be able to set the tray down and flee before Mr. Ruffo notices me?
I’m nearly there when the cause of my anxiety looks up. Those wicked blue eyes dart directly to mine. I almost drop the tray for the second time.
“And so we meet again.”
I tremble. That voice. Deep. Dark. A tad smoky. It wraps around me like a corporeal being. One with a pulse and breath of its own.
I glance away, breaking the hold those icy-blue eyes have on me. “Um… Good afternoon, sir.” My hands shake so much the glasses rattle as I lean to set the tray on the coffee table. I have to—
A strong male hand covers one of mine, curling over my flesh and the edge of the serving tray. Steading both it and me.
For the longest moment, I am suspended in time. I gape at Mr. Ruffo’s fingers. His hand is so big, it seems to swallow mine.
“Breathe.”
The whisper is low. Smooth. Soft like velvet.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Little Iris.”
I swallow, then meet those icy orbs again.
“Don’t I?”
His gentle hold on my hand grows firmer, pressing my fingers to the bottom of the tray. Something fiery and dangerous flares in those glacial depths. Did I offend him? New fear slams into my mind.
At the conference table, the discussion between the three men gets more heated. Simultaneous shouts erupt. It only makes my situation more surreal. Makes my skin tight. Makes my heart pound.
“No,” he replies.
I blink. Staring at him, completely dumbfounded.
Is it possible I misunderstood? Misinterpreted what happened in Capo Brio’s library?
Was it really someone else who killed his wife?
Was he there only because he discovered her body, just as I thought that night?
Was he also in shock? And, perhaps, he’s covered up what actually happened because he’s trying to figure out who is truly responsible for her death?
The man before me, the man helping me steady my hand, he doesn’t look like a murderer to me.
“Did you do it?”
The words tumble out of my mouth before I realize I opened it. Horrified, I try to pull away, aghast at my own stupidity. But like a shackle, his hand is tight on mine.
That icy flame flares back in his eyes as Mr. Ruffo leans forward. His hot breath fans my ear. “With tremendous satisfaction.”
He lets go of my hand, and I manage a step back, still gripping the tray as if my life depends on it.
I eye Ruffo like I’m seeing him for the very first time.
With caution. With alarm. Before now, I wanted to believe that he was innocent.
That he was incapable of such a heinous crime.
I stare. I dread. I can no longer pretend.
And Ruffo simply sits back and picks up the documents from the coffee table.
His glacial focus once again on the papers in his hand, casually scanning the contents.
“Iris!”
I spin around, startled by Rina’s urgent tone. She’s hovering near the doorway, a phone lodged in her trembling hands. Worry is written all over her face as her gaze flits between Don Spada and me.
“Evelyn…your neighbor…is on the phone.” Rina’s voice shakes, and she extends her arm as if she expects me to take the call right then and there. “She’s been trying to reach you. It’s… It’s your mom. She fainted. The ambulance has already been called.”
The tray slips from my hands. The clatter and the sound of shattering glass explode into the suddenly quiet space. I fly out of the conference room as fast as my feet can carry me.
My purse and jacket are in the cubby in the staff quarters, where we stash all our personal belongings while we work.
It’s all the way on the other side of the house.
I rush by a bunch of confused maids, a few lingering construction guys, and the bewildered Timoteo, the butler.
Grabbing my things, I head straight for the front door.
Halfway down the front stairs, I realize it will take the better part of two hours for me to reach home or the hospital, if that’s where Mom was taken.
I first need to get to the nearest bus stop, which is almost a twenty-minute walk away from the Spada Estate.
Damn! Damn! Damn! I should have asked Ms. Zara if one of the security guys could give me a ride.
As I’m about to run back inside, a sleek black stretch car pulls up at the foot of the stairs.
“Miss Iris?” the driver asks through the open window.
“Yes.”
He exits immediately and scurries to open the back passenger door. “I’ve been instructed to give you a lift. Please.” He motions for me to get in.
A relieved sigh leaves my lips. Ms. Zara must have sent him when she heard about my mom. That woman is an angel. I rush toward the vehicle.
“Thank you,” I breathe as I get in and fasten the seat belt, noting another set of seats across from me, like in a limo. “Please, let Ms. Zara and Don Spada know how much I appreciate their help.”
The driver’s gaze finds mine in the rearview mirror. “No problem at all. I’ll make sure the boss receives your thanks.”
The car takes off toward the gate.
***
“She is stable now, but her condition is worsening,” Dr. Reynolds says. “I’d like to keep her overnight, at least, for observation, but your mother has refused.”
The heavy weight inside my chest shifts, allowing me to draw my first full breath of the last three hours.
The relief lasts less than the blink of an eye because Mom’s doctor continues to stress all sorts of “shoulds.” Should be admitted, should run more tests, take more medications and try more treatments, and finally… the transplant.
“She still won’t consider the waitlist,” Dr. Reynolds says in a more hushed tone. “Without that step, her chances are… Well, we’ve been through all this already. Did you reach out to the foundation we discussed? If they agree to help, perhaps your mom will change her mind?”
“I…uh…I have,” I choke out. “The application status is pending. Could I…?” I wave my thumb over my shoulder, where my mom is resting on the hospital bed behind a half-closed curtain.
“Yes, of course. She really should be admitted for the night.”
And I would allow you to do it in a heartbeat, but it’s not my call.
Mom has given up. Refusing practically all medical care. Too costly, she says. Like her life has a price.
My legs feel like lead as I trudge across the hospital hallway.
For years now, we’ve been drowning in Mom’s medical bills.
Every spare penny goes to pay down the debt.
It took a while to diagnose Mom’s coronary artery disease, mostly because we don’t have health insurance.
And because Mom was too stubborn to see a doctor, even when pain and fatigue kept her confined to bed.
She is at high risk of heart failure, so a heart transplant might be her only chance.
There’s just one small obstacle. The teeniest detail, beyond other factors like her age, overall health, medical urgency, and actually finding a matching donor.
I need a measly one point nine million dollars to keep her alive.
No biggy, right?
I wipe the tears from my eyes as I approach Mom’s bed. She’s napping. Her long, light-brown hair is braided and draped over her pillow. She looks so peaceful. But she’s probably hopped-up on meds. She rarely naps during the day at home.
Her hands rest on top of a thin sheet. They look so delicate, so fragile. Gently, I take one in mine, smoothing her calloused palm with my thumb.
I remember when her hands were soft. When her elegant fingers braided my hair before school.
When they wiped my tears away when I was sick or sad.
Her warm touch always made me feel protected and loved.
Mom’s beautiful hands. They’ve lost their youthful luster.
These days, the skin is a bit rough, the veins a bit more prominent.
But Mom’s hands still make me feel loved, still keep me safe, and happy.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I whisper. “I’ll find a way.” I stroke her knuckles, softly squeeze her hand, then reach into my purse to grab my phone.
I stare at Rina’s name in my text app for nearly a minute, my thumb hovering over the keyboard on my screen.
After only two weeks of working at the private gentlemen’s club, she already earned enough money to buy a car.
It might be a ten-year-old clunker, but it runs.
And it doesn’t look that bad in the pictures. Two weeks, five grand. Crazy money.
With a deep breath, I type out a short message and immediately hit Send. I can’t afford to chicken out.
18:21 Iris: Could you ask Maggie to get me in, too?