Chapter 4
Princess
Lucio
I guess you’ve dropped something on your way out.
The text comes in, with an image of my necklace attached. My hand shoots up to my neck, and I feel around to where it should be.
Fuck!
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t believe I dropped it in his apartment.
If I hadn’t been snooping more than I should’ve, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
I nibble on the skin surrounding my thumb, wincing when I bite down too hard.
Inspecting it, I watch as the small droplet of blood forms into a perfect circle.
He can see that I’ve read his text. I debate on what I should send back.
Me
Who said I didn’t mean to leave that there?
Lucio
Maybe because it was hidden in one of my drawers, little mouse.
I frown at the nickname. I’m not sure if I like it or if it makes me feel gross. After all, I do find rodents repulsive.
As does everyone else, Princess .
Closing my phone, I toss it on my bed and pace the length of my room.
It’s late in the evening and everyone has retired to their bedrooms. The embarrassing growling sounds that are coming from my stomach are not convincing enough for me to scale the dark hallways of my family’s mansion just to get to the kitchen and rummage around like I’m some sort of raccoon.
I plop down on my bed and stare at the ceiling, debating what to wear to the upcoming charity ball that the Maronis are throwing. I know Lucio will be there, but he, of course, won’t know me and most definitely won’t be looking for me since he doesn’t know what I look like.
A knock on my door has me sitting up straight in my bed.
I clear my throat. “Come in.”
My door opens slightly, and Dad pokes his head in, thick black hair with streaks of white, and kind deep blue eyes meet mine. I give him a tight-lipped smile, and he cocks his head to the side.
“May I come in?”
I stand up, smoothing my hands down my black yoga pants. “Yes, Father. Come in.”
He wrinkles his nose as he steps in, a plate in his hand. “You don’t have to call me ‘Father.’ Your mother isn’t here, and I prefer Dad.”
Smiling, I join him on the sofa in the corner of my room. He places the plate in front of me, steam coming off the long, thick noodles and a side of chicken tenders. My two favorite foods in the world.
“I know, but I don’t understand why she insists on me and Kaito calling you ‘Father’ and ‘Mother,’ especially in private. We’re a family , not strangers.”
Dad lets out an exhausted sigh and ruffles my hair. “I know, darling, but your mother grew up in an extremely strict house. And rules are everything to her. Eat up, now. Don’t waste good food on a passing disagreement.”
I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from answering back. Instead, I nod and grab one of the tenders, the meat melting into my mouth. When I look at Dad again, he has a soft smile on his face, but there’s a sadness to it.
Wiping the corners of my mouth, I ask, “Is there something wrong?”
He avoids looking at me, his eyes bouncing all over the room before he shuts them. My mouth dries at what it could be.
Maybe he’s finally divorcing her.
Guilt washes over me for even thinking of the downfall of my parents’ marriage. Regardless of how different my parents are, they’ve always loved each other.
Dad finally clears his throat and says, “Everyone was meant to be at the dinner table this evening, but your mother…has a temper that no one can predict. We had agreed that she wouldn’t try to kick anyone out of the dining room, and that went as well as you’d expect.”
I lean back, trying to ease some of the tension that’s taking over my body. Dad continues after he lets out a loud sigh.
“I have been to the doctor’s office quite a lot over the past couple of months, and they’ve finally been able to diagnose my symptoms.”
Dad has been struggling a lot for a couple of months now and has been going back and forth doing tests and having to be told that they’re not sure what’s wrong.
“They said that I have Motor Neuron Disease, MND. The doctors have given me a year or two, maximum.”
Do you know the feeling of being hit by a car? Well, I do. Time slows, the air is knocked out of you, and everything aches, but also feels like jelly.
That’s how I feel right now. I can feel the shaking of my hands ricocheting through my bones and rattling off my skeleton.
When I don’t say anything, Dad goes to stand up, but I wrap my hand around his wrist. He looks down at me, eyes shining with empathy .
Or is it pity? I should be the one comforting him, not the other way around.
But I can’t help asking, “How long?”
He frowns, confused. “Darling, I’ve already told you?—”
I cut him off, shaking my head. “No, as in how long you have known you have MND?”
Dad slowly sits back down, running his hands over his face before replying, “Three months.”
I can feel the pressure build up and the familiar sting of tears, and it feels like everything is closing in on me.
Dad seems to realize that I’m feeling some sort of way because he rushes to add, “I wanted to exhaust every other option before telling you and your brothers. I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”
“Dad, please tell me that the other doctor’s diagnosis contradicted the ones that told you that you have a year or two max left.” I clench his warm hands, trying, hoping it will ground me and stop this helplessness that seems to be overtaking all my senses.
He gives me a defeated smile, and I feel myself spiraling again.
“No, mia amore. Unfortunately, most of them agreed that I have a year, or two at best. I do wish it was a different case, but that’s the reality of this disease. They’ve all recommended I look at options of hospice as soon as possible.”
I try to breathe in, but it feels more like a chore than a need. “Does…does everyone know?”
Dad pauses, studying my face as if unsure how to answer my question.
“Mostly. Your Uncle Stefano, mom, and brothers all know. However, we’re planning on keeping it hidden from the public…
” He pauses, swallowing down whatever words he was going to say, then smooths his hand over my hair.
“I should let you finish eating. Don’t stay up too late. ”
He presses a kiss on my forehead, just like he used to when I was younger.
He goes to stand up, but I hug him before whispering, “I love you, Dad.”
He taps his warm hand on my back, a soothing gesture if it wasn’t for the gaping hole where my heart should be.
“I love you too, mia amore,” he whispers back.
The doors shut with a low thud, and the reality of his words sink their talons into my flesh.
Dad’s going to die.
He has a couple of months, maybe two years if we’re pushing it. I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready for this.
But are we ever ready for death?