Chapter Twenty-nine
RONAN
Present Day
NEW YORK CITY
“The contractor is here,” Rachel informed me. “Should I have him come in? Or wait?”
I sat upright, removing my bush jacket. “Have him enter, please, and stay as well.”
She nodded and left, returning with Mr. Lenworth Anglin from Dillon’s real estate and construction company a few seconds later.
“Good morning,” I greeted, leaning over my desk to shake his hand.
“Good morning, Dr. Romano,” he responded. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” I said, gesturing for them to sit as I passed him a folder. “I need the property listed in that folder turned into a boutique in less than three weeks,” I stated, aware of the tight deadline.
Nina was set to leave the city today and return sometime within the next month. I wasn’t sure how long her next visit would be, but I estimated more than a week and less than three. This project needed to be completed by then.
“Less than three weeks?” he asked, a hint of shock in his tone. “It can be done, but it will require expedited efforts and substantial resources.”
“My assistant, Rachel, will be in contact with you, and money isn’t an issue. I need it done within the specified time frame.”
“We’ll need more details, as well as a walk-through, but yes, it can be done.”
A wave of relief washed over me. “Perfect. Rachel will send you the details within the next hour.”
“That would be amazing. Thank you, Dr. Romano.”
“The pleasure is mine,” I replied. He exited the office while Rachel stayed behind to receive all the necessary details. Then, I headed to the hospital, which was particularly busy today.
I entered the treatment room where Ms. Leann sat awaiting her chemotherapy.
I had been caring for her for months now, and each day without improvement felt like a dagger to my heart.
Despite our best efforts—she had quit her taxing job and was meticulously following her medication regimen—the cancer was spreading faster than I had anticipated.
She sat upright, looking as pleasant as ever as I approached to administer her Gemcitabine injection.
“It’ll only pinch for a second,” I said, bracing her for the momentary pain.
“I’ll be fine, Dr. Romano,” she assured me, and I gently placed the needle in her vein.
I took a seat beside her, crossing my legs and holding her medical file. “Given the rapid progression of the disease,” I said, struggling to keep my emotions in check, “we’ll need to extend the dosage time to an hour instead of thirty minutes. But don’t worry, I’ll be here with you the whole time.”
“Thank you,” she said, reaching out to touch my hand. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“You remind me of my mother,” I whispered. “So full of love and light. I couldn’t save her, but I’ll fight for you.”
Tears pooled in her eyes, and she turned away. “You are like the son I never had. I can’t thank you enough for being here. I don’t know how to tell my daughter… I fear it will be too late when I’m ready.”
I placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “Tell her as soon as you can. You’ve been fighting for months, and I’m doing my best to ensure you get to see her graduate. I know how important that is to you.”
She nodded, her voice breaking. “It is. The good thing is, this medication doesn’t make me feel sluggish every day, and though my hair is thinning, it hasn’t fallen out completely.”
“I chose the least harsh option, but with the increased dosage time, the side effects might intensify.”
“I understand,” she said, reaching for the blanket beside her.
Seeing her struggle, I helped tuck her in, noticing a box of cards under the blanket. “Are these yours?”
She nodded, taking them from my hand. “Yes, I use them to pass the time. I rearrange them or shuffle over and over.”
I pulled a small table over and sat beside her. “Today, we’ll play. What’s your favorite card game?”
She looked at me in disbelief. “I can’t ask you to do that. You’re already doing so much, and you must be incredibly busy.”
“Ms. Leann, what’s your favorite card game?”
“You’re as stubborn as my child,” she said, a hint of a smile breaking through her tears.
“If I weren’t so old, I could probably be your son,” I joked.
“In another lifetime.” She placed a hand on mine. “My favorite card game is Go Fish.”
I took the deck from her and laid out the cards. “Go Fish it is, then.”
For the next hour, we played Go Fish, our conversation moving between the game and the deeper struggles of her life.
As she opened up about the hardships she had faced, my heart ached for her.
Here was a woman who had never had an easy life, who had sacrificed everything for her child, and now was grappling with this cruel disease.
Despite knowing the high probability of her passing soon, I couldn’t bear the thought of her facing this alone. I had to be by her side. If she couldn’t tell Azzaria, at least she’d die with the notion that there was someone by her side who cared deeply for her.
“I’ll see you in five days for a checkup, then we’ll proceed. Remember to take your vitamins and get plenty of rest because you’ll be tired,” I reminded her gently.
She leaned in to hug me, and a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying lifted from my shoulders.
My mind drifted back to the warmth of my Mamma’s hugs after a long day at work or the comfort she offered when Papa had been too rough with his punishments.
A sense of peace washed over me—one I hadn’t felt since their passing.
Ms. Leann pulled back, tears in her eyes. “I’ll see you in five days.”
By the time I left the hospital, it was six in the evening.
My day had been exhausting—leading a practical session with the interns, meetings with my staff, sitting in on a call with Mrs. De Luca’s doctors, where I was relieved to hear she was progressing well and had high chances of going into remission, and squeezing in a last-minute appointment for a client who needed a breast ultrasound.
I stopped at Astor Wine & Spirits to pick up a case of Dillon’s favorite scotch—a belated birthday gift. I had planned to head straight home, give him another day, but an unexpected urge to talk to him gnawed at me. Before I knew it, I was taking a detour, steering toward his penthouse instead.
My incessant knocking didn’t seem to work, so I texted him. Finally, I heard the latch click.
“You look like shit,” I remarked, pushing past him into the living room. “I brought this for you.”
“Why are you trying to bribe me?” he asked skeptically.
I sighed, walking over to his couch. “I was in the store, and picked it up because I didn’t get you a birthday gift yesterday, stronzo. Plus, I need to talk to you about two things.”
“I’m not a therapist,” he retorted.
I laughed, but something was off. He was more irritable than usual, and it worried me. Nevertheless, I blurted out, “Your girl’s mom has cancer.”
“What the fuck?” His head shot up faster than I’d ever seen, and the way his eyes looked as if they were about to tear up sank my heart a bit.
“Now’s not the time to joke,” he warned, kicking me in the knee, but I didn’t move or flinch. Dillon knew me better than that. I’d never joke about cancer.
“It’s terminal, and she’s had it for about five months,” I explained.
He sat in shock and disbelief. “How do you know?”
“At the time, when you told me the name, I was wondering why it sounded so familiar. Then she took a call from her daughter one day, and I connected the dots. This morning she came into the hospital, and she was there sitting in the chemo roo—”
“Was she there alone?”
“Yes. She’s always at her appointments alone.”
I went on to explain everything I could about her condition without breaching any confidentiality laws. Then, we sat in silence, the weight of it all settling between us.
“I’ll take care of the bills,” he said, grabbing his checkbook. “How much?”
“I’ll have to get you an invoice, but you have time. I won’t stop her treatments, regardless of what her financial situation is.” I sighed, sipping a glass of something strong. “I’ve covered quite a lot, though.”
“How long do you think her lifespan will be?”
“Twelve months if she’s lucky, but it’s unpredictable, as you know. These things change often. She has lost no hair, only a bit of thinning,” I explained, sighing heavily.
“Don’t all patients suffer from hair loss?” he asked, confused.
“It depends on the drug. Hence why Azzaria doesn’t even realize her mom is sick.”
“Wouldn’t she look sick?”
“In some cases, but not all the time. Some days are better than others,” I clarified. “Her mother has been managing her symptoms well enough to keep them from being obvious. From what I heard, Leann’s been avoiding Azzaria entirely.”
A heavy silence settled between us, the weight of the situation pressing down. Neither of us spoke as night fell, exhaustion eventually pulling me under until I passed out on his couch.
I woke up with my heart pounding in my chest. Disoriented, I glanced around and realized I was still in Dillon’s living room.
The dream was vivid: back in the kitchen of our family home, the aroma of my mother’s pasta sauce filled the air. I saw them clearly: Lucia and Renaldo Romano, my parents, their smiles warm yet tinged with a sense of sadness I didn’t understand then.
It was our last summer together before everything changed.
My mother, her energy waning but her spirit resilient, stirred the sauce with practiced grace.
My father sat at the table, a gentle smile on his tired face as he recounted tales of their youth, boasting about how amazing his family was—how amazing we were.
I hung onto every word, every shared laugh, unknowingly storing them for the years ahead.
In the dream, their laughter and tears blended, love masking unspoken fears. My mother’s gentle words reassured me, urging strength in their absence, while my father’s hand on my shoulder silently vowed to watch over me.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the dream slipped away, leaving me with an ache in my heart. I lay in the darkness, grasping at the fragments of that precious memory, longing to hold on to them a little longer.
I sat up, gulped the amber liquor in the glass beside me, and whispered, as if they could hear me, “I miss you both so much, but I’ll do everything to live right by you.”