Chapter 16
The walls are closing in on me as I stare at the doctor while she explains how close I came to losing my mother yesterday.
Dr. Reynolds is doing her best to explain Mom’s current condition in plain language, but none of the words are penetrating my foggy brain.
I’m still stuck on the first sentence she said when we stepped out of the hospital room, leaving Mom to rest.
She is running out of time. Without the transplant, your mom may not survive another heart attack.
I clutch the mountain of papers—copies of waivers, release forms, and the healthcare proxy Mom signed, appointing me as her authorized agent to make medical decisions in the event she becomes incapacitated.
Now that she’s been admitted to a hospital, and after the scare we went through a few weeks ago and over the past twenty-four hours, this was an absolute must. But if there is a silver lining in this nightmare, it’s that Mom has finally agreed to be evaluated by the transplant team and, if she’s deemed a candidate, added to the heart transplant waitlist. Not every person can hold steady when facing their own mortality.
I don’t think any less of her for that. I’m actually hugely relieved that she hasn’t lost her fight entirely.
That I won’t have to watch my mom die, unable to do anything else to help her.
Her decision, of course, doesn’t guarantee that a match will be found or that it will be located in time.
Nor does it take into account our ability to afford the procedure or all the care before and after.
However, now I have the power to work with the financial transplant coordinator on Mom’s behalf.
And I’ll do everything I can to secure funding so Mom can be officially listed.
In a moment of weakness, I’ve come up with the idea of throwing myself at Ms. Zara’s mercy as soon as I see her on Monday.
Maybe she’ll be willing to give me a loan.
I’ll work for the Spadas for the rest of my life, if I have to, to pay it off.
And pay it off I will. She knows she can trust me. And I hope Don Spada will agree.
Then, I’ll just need to find a way to earn enough to repay the debt. And there’s just one way I can think to make that happen. I already rescinded my earlier cancellation to work at the Annex tonight. Something I didn’t think would happen when we rushed Mom to the hospital yesterday.
I’m dragging my feet as I head out of the hospital to my waiting Uber.
After spending all day and all night with Mom in the ER, I only have a few short hours before I need to be ready for an evening of entertaining my silent guest. Might not be as easy as it usually is, considering I don’t remember the last time I slept.
Maybe I could squeeze in an hour or two of rest before heading out to the Annex, but with everything weighing on my mind, I’m not sure I could sleep.
The driver has the radio tuned to a local station that’s recapping the news.
The volume is too loud, but as exhausted as I am, I can’t manage to care.
My eyelids are too heavy to keep open while the announcer reports no new leads on the grisly murder of a local entrepreneur near a Beacon Hill dog park almost a week ago.
The man was beaten to death, and his hand was cut off and pinned to a nearby tree.
Goose bumps break out all over my arms as the radio host speculates about who might be responsible.
A gang hit. A crime of passion. The chatter makes me wonder if la Famiglia could have been involved.
Chopping off fingers is fairly common practice when it comes to certain offenses in the Mafia, but the whole hand…
That’s not something you hear about every day.
It’s a consequence that would probably be reserved for a majorly insolent act.
What in the world had that man done to not only be beaten to death, but to have his hand cut off, too?
I shake my head and take a deep breath, hoping it will calm my nerves. It doesn’t really work. I’ve been on edge ever since I got off the phone with Maggie.
Because I asked to wear a red dress tonight.
I slide into the back of the car and turn on my phone.
The surprise, “short” dinner meeting with the delegates of a South American conglomerate that has been actively courting Ruffo Enterprises turned into a three-hour-long ass-kissing session.
Their figurative lips must be raw from puckering up, but I couldn’t get out of it until I secured their international contracts—the one thing they were not willing to part with.
Now I need to deal with a list of missed calls that’s a mile long, with the most recent being from Brahms.
“We finally located Mr. Zambowe, sir.” Brahms’s voice comes through the speaker of my phone.
“He’s been living large on a moored yacht in the Bahamas since a week before he was to meet you at the gala in New York.
According to my sources, the guy has been as high as a kite every day, and doesn’t even recall how he got there.
Keeps mumbling about receiving an invitation, and then… nothing else makes sense.”
“Fucking great.” I grab a bottle of mineral water from the compartment in the car door and unscrew the lid. Even the faint hiss of escaping gas ratchets up the throbbing in my temple.
“The offshore rig fire has been attributed to human error. A new hire pressed the wrong button, it seems. I’ve been told the man might have suffered a psychotic episode. He’s been in therapy for years, but somehow HR missed that detail during the hiring process.”
Sweet. I have incompetent employees, and now we’re hiring lunatics as well. “Doesn’t explain the text rhyme, so keep digging,” I say. “What about the squad that hit DeVille’s car, believing it to be mine?”
“That’s a more delicate matter. It appears they were Kiril’s. He took exception to our handling of Petrov’s shipments before his, and wanted to send a message. Somehow things got out of hand. Should I set up a face-to-face to smooth things over?”
I sigh. The leader of the Bulgarian syndicate is known to overreact from time to time. His stint in the slammer had only exacerbated his maniacal tendencies.
“I’ll handle Kiril. Now, give me the update on the woman.”
“She spent the night at Mass General with her mother, as you know,” Brahms says. “Left this morning around eleven thirty. Miss Fabbri appeared to be dead on her feet, so as soon as she got home, she had a very brief rest.”
“And how is her mother? Were you able to obtain a copy of the woman’s medical records?”
“Yes. But the nurse we used before demanded twice as much this time.”
“Of course she did. And? Did you forward the file to my family physician?”
“I did. Dr. Nolan reported that Mrs. Fabbri’s condition has deteriorated since her previous hospitalization. She needs a transplant for any chance of survival, but she isn’t even on the list yet.”
“Why not?”
“Her financial situation will not allow it.”
“Not surprising.” I remove my glasses and squeeze my temples, wishing I could simply crush the pain. “Anything else?”
“Not really. One of my men will make sure Miss Fabbri gets back home from the Annex safely, as usual, but other than—”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“Um… The car picked her up an hour ago, and I thought—”
I pound on the privacy divider separating me from the driver. “Turn the car around! Now!” I snarl.
Club Annex, Location Unknown
“You’re sure about this, Iris?”
I stare at my reflection. At the long, silky, red dress. The same style I’ve worn almost every Saturday night for months, but the color makes my insides twist with dread and, maybe, a bit of anticipation. No, I’m definitely not sure. But I don’t have another option.
My eyes find Roxanne’s in the mirror. She’s filling in for Maggie as the head hostess tonight. Rina’s cousin was called away due to a family emergency just before I arrived.
“You said Maggie contacted…my regular guest?” I choke out.
“I know she was trying to reach him all afternoon, ever since you let her know your plans had changed. And after she left, I was informed that all arrangements had been made. It came directly from the guy who oversees security around here, so I’m sure he’s well aware of who is expected at the Annex tonight. ”
Some of my anxiety dissipates. I’m glad Maggie came through for me. Knowing I’ll be with my silent guest, and that he’s willing to change the terms of our arrangement, makes the whole idea the tiniest fraction less paralyzing. That tells me everything I need to know about my mental state right now.
“But maybe you should call tonight off. You shouldn’t be doing this when you’re so obviously worried about your mom. And with Maggie not being here—”
“No,” I insist and grab her hand. “Please, Roxanne. I need the money.”
“Yeah. Okay. Try to enjoy your evening. You want him satisfied, so he comes back for more.” She leans closer to whisper in my ear. “Do you want me to see if he could be persuaded to forgo the blindfold?”
“No,” I croak. If I’m selling my body, I’d rather not have the visual of how that unfolds.
“Alright then. Let’s go.”
I thought the nerves I’m feeling now couldn’t surpass what I experienced the first time I walked down one of the long, gothic hallways, but as I follow Roxanne, my instincts have me ready to bolt.
As the pressure gets overwhelming, though, I remind myself that I’m doing this for my mom.
I am her only hope for a chance at survival.
And there’s nothing on this earth I won’t do for her.
I’d beg, steal, or borrow, sell my soul to the devil if I need to, all to see her healthy and smiling again.
After all, it’s just sex. I’ll get over it. Eventually.
I’m led down a different hallway than usual. Roxanne’s hand lands on my shoulder when we stop in front of an unfamiliar door. “Last chance. If you want to back out, I can ask someone else to jump in.”
“I’m good.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own.