Chapter 13 – Poppy
Everything ached. My feet felt cold, no matter the double pairs of socks wrapping around them, but the insides—the bones, ligaments, joints—pulsed with inflammation. It spread up my legs, spider webs of pain that cocooned around my knees, dug into my hips, and screamed across my lower back.
Brady arched on the couch, pushing his book. The corner dug into my stomach, and I wasn’t quick enough to stifle the hiss.
“Mama, you’re still hot,” he observed, worry knitting his brows.
I gave him a smile. “I’ll be good as new tomorrow.”
Just one more night of good sleep. If I could manage that….
My cheeks warmed thinking about the deal with the devil in the dark. Emotions swirled in my chest, and I didn’t dare name them. The tingly sensation was only because I was sick. Once the stress was under control, my brain could process the event with a more critical eye.
As if he knew I was thinking about him, Ivan emerged from his room. Brady hopped off the couch and took off to intercept the mobster on his way to the bathroom. I thought about calling out, to make him come back, but phlegm choked in my throat and I ended up coughing.
Garh! Lack of sleep and stress combined into this frustrating—and disgusting—illness.
Instead of using the bathroom, Ivan came to the arch separating the living room from the kitchen. His critical gaze took me in before I could hide.
“Feeling any better?” he asked.
There was a softness to his voice that I didn’t like. Gone was the beast in the night, and instead, the smiling prince of darkness who’d captured my attention just a few weeks ago was there.
“I’m okay.”
Brady promptly gave a report, explaining that I was hot but shivering, and dwelling on the fact that I’d already gone through a box of tissues.
Sometimes, I wished the child came with a mute button.
“Do you want anything for the fever?” Ivan slid his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.
It wasn’t fair. He wore a fitted grey tee that showed off his god-like physic, while those lounge pants hung dangerously off his hips.
His long hair, tousled from sleep, hung in coils and waves around his face making a dark halo before falling in a silky black curtain to dust his shoulders.
He’d just been sleeping but looked good.
Damn good. Not that I thought he was handsome.
No, that hadn’t crossed my mind. Not last night on my knees, gazing into his mask of terrible beauty, and not right now, as he stood watching me.
I refused to notice.
Meanwhile, I probably looked as bad as I felt.
“The fever isn’t high, so I need to let it run its course,” I explained. “Thanks, though.”
Ivan frowned. “We have medicine. Why won’t you use it?”
I was too tired to explain. But he wasn’t letting this go. “I’ve been drinking tea. That’s what my body needs.”
“She’s got her garlic too. And honey!” Brady chimed in.
Ivan rubbed his chin. “My grandmother used those things.”
The comment was spoken softly, as if he were talking to himself.
“Your grandmother was a wise woman,” I offered and then coughed into my elbow.
Ivan’s gaze darkened. “She did what she had to because we didn’t have medicine. You have medicine and yet you won’t use it. You call that wise?”
“I do.” His skepticism wasn’t something I wanted to deal with right now.
But I felt the argument rise within me, so I gave him the short version.
“Everything we need is in nature. And our bodies are resilient. There’s something toxic in me that the fever is trying to purge.
The body knows what to do, and we should help it, not hurt—”
More coughing racked my frame.
Brady pressed himself close to Ivan. “Tatko, is she going to be okay?”
Ivan roused himself, leaning down to pick up his son. “You’re a good doctor, and you’ve taken good care of your patient. She’s going to make a full recovery.”
“And then we can go to the zoo!” Brady beamed. “You’ll come too.”
Surprise flashed through the mobster’s savagely handsome face.
Not that I thought he was handsome.
But if a sculptor ever wanted inspiration for a god of old to be carved from marble—
Stop it. You’ve got to stop it. Those trails of thought were dangerous.
“I’ve never been to the zoo,” Ivan admitted softly, speaking only to the child.
But my heart seized tight on instinct. I loved the zoo as a child. We went at least once a month.
“You haven’t.” Brady’s eyes were wide. “Is it because you’re poor?”
“Brady!” I squeaked. If I wasn’t flushed already, the rise of heat to my face did the trick. Embarrassment swirled inside me. “Brady, we don’t talk about those things.”
“But you do.” He gave me a pointed look.
Heavens, why were children so damn oblivious. Just because they hadn’t learned social cues yet….
I wanted to die.
“I didn’t say any of it to you, and I thought you were too busy playing,” I snapped, then instantly regretted the tone.
Taking a deep breath, I changed to Italian, which he understood perfectly well since he’d been bi-lingual since he started jabbering as a toddler.
“It’s not polite to tell people things like that. It could hurt Ivan’s feelings.”
“Did we hurt your feelings, tatko?” Brady swiveled, big, soulfully dark eyes fixated on his sire.
“Sorry, little man, I don’t speak Italian,” Ivan said gently.
“Oh, I forgot.” Brady scrunched his nose and tried again in English. “Did we hurt your feelings?”
I groaned. There was no good way to extricate myself from this situation that was probably hilarious to anyone without children, while other parents would share my discomfort, but secretly be glad they weren’t in my shoes.
“Not at all,” Ivan responded. “But I’m not poor. I have heaps and heaps of gold.”
“Just like a dragon,” Brady said enthusiastically.
“Run to the backyard, and I’ll be right there to help you dig up a box,” Ivan encouraged.
Brady took off like a shot the moment his feet hit the ground.
But it wasn’t over. Ivan turned to me.
“What made you say that?” he asked, voice rough. “What makes you assume I’m poor? Just because I don’t live in a mansion like your cousin?”
I held up my hands in defeat.
“For your information, I have enough money to bury the Mancinis and fill every room in their house with stacks and stacks of bills, gold, or whatever other currency you like.” There was a bitter note under the triumph in the mobster’s voice.
“Then why the used furniture?” I blurted out, clearly a glutton for punishment.
“If my furniture displeases you, buy something you like,” he sneered.
Yep, it was official. I’d struck a chord.
“It isn’t luxury I’m after,” I said tartly, which only made another cough tickle. “It’s cleanliness. Your carpet is ancient. Because you wear shoes in the house, who knows what’s caked—” cough-cough “—in the threads.”
For the first time, Ivan lowered his gaze.
He seemed to look, really look, at his house.
It probably still smelled fresh today, but only because I spent hours scouring every surface.
The mold in the cracks was dying thanks to the bleach, but it would come back.
It was impossible to tell what color the carpet originally had been.
And the linoleum was peeling in the kitchen.
The walls—those hadn’t been painted in the last decade.
“I just don’t think it’s healthy for a child to grow up somewhere with mold, mildew, and dirt. Dirt outside is fine—good for them! But if we’re staying here—”
Ivan’s gaze snapped to mine. “You are. Or did you not learn your lesson last night?”
Because I was too busy coughing and clearing my throat, I waved my hand. When I finally took a ragged gasp, I continued, “I don’t want Brady growing up in the ghetto, Ivan.”
“The ghetto,” he spat. “You know nothing, princess.”
It wasn’t an endearment. The word made me feel spoilt and stupid.
“Our house in Carrington, it’s a cottage. Smaller than this.” I lifted a shoulder in defeat. “It’s not about size. That’s all.”
Ivan rubbed his bare toe against the threadbare carpet. “You may…have a point.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said softly, and not because volume would irritate my throat. I meant the apology. With my whole heart.
If he realized that, he didn’t comment. Instead, he turned and stalked to the back door. It slammed hard behind him.
Leaning back into the flattened cushions, I sighed. I felt like shit, and not from being sick. But I was right, little comfort that that was. I wanted Brady to grow up somewhere safe. Somewhere clean.
That is why we have to leave.
Mashed potatoes. I can do this.
Leaning wearily against the shopping cart, I stepped between the sliding doors of the supermarket. Rayko remained outside, smoking the cigarette I refused to let him light in the truck. It was a half mile from Ivan’s street to the store. And the goon could barely wait the three minutes to smoke.
In the absence of the guard, I could breathe easier. They must not think I was much of a threat. They assumed I wouldn’t tell the store manager that I’d been kidnapped and was being held against my will. Sadly, they were right. It crossed my mind, but I dismissed it.
Involving the law was messy.
Cops were dirty, and lawyers were worse.
Plus, if I crossed Ivan in such an obvious way, he might end up separating me from my son. Permanently.
No, I’d learned long ago that the legal path was never the way out of the mob. The exception was when the local sheriff kept me safe from my father. But this wasn’t the wild west, and the city police weren’t the deputies in the country.
Oh, blessed heaven, things were so much simpler in the country.
Brady wedged himself between two shoppers and selected an apple from the bin. “Mama, these aren’t organic.”
The child needed to keep his mouth shut in public.
I sighed and jerked my chin to the small section of produce with a big green sign over the top. “Over here, buddy.”