“Dario!” I’m on my feet at his side, a hand on his arm. “Please excuse my brother,” I tell the pale-featured surgeon. “He’s been under a lot of pressure.”
It’s no lie. Nikki’s taken another bad turn, and Dario had dragged himself away from her bedside to be here. I can tell he’s torn now, between duty to the father he hates and the woman he worships. Even as we speak, a vibration hums from his pocket. He snatches out his phone and turns away from us as he starts speaking urgently to whoever is on the line. When he turns back, he’s as pale as the doctor.
“I have to go,” he says, looking around at the men he’d brought with him. They fall in at his side immediately as he shoots me a look. “She needs me,” he says, and the emotion in his voice is palpable.
“Go,” I tell him. “It’s where your heart lies.” He stares at me strangely, as if tussling some inner demon, before nodding. I add, “I’ll be right here. If anything changes, I’ll call you at once.”
His broad hand lands on my shoulder for a brief moment, tightening and then releasing as he turns and strides away without another word to the doctor. The man sucks in a breath.
“I’ll be back shortly, Mr. Caraldi,” he says, clearly relieved my brother is no longer looming over him. “As soon as there’s a change, I’ll take you through to him.”
I sink back into my seat, rubbing my face with both hands.
“It’s going be all right, Raoul,” Emma says gently. I give her a tight smile. How can I tell her that half my turmoil lies in the fact that part of me doesn’t care if the old man lives or dies? Bad genes, that’s what I got. I’m as rotten as he is. Thank God I’ll never pass that on to another living being.
I curl my fingers through hers and lean back against my chair. The bandages around my torso pull tautly – clean now, after being replaced by my little Florence Nightingale. After we’d arrived, she’d returned with a nurse and a heap of medical supplies and replaced the soiled dressings herself. Thoughts of those sweet hands on my flesh lull me into a quiet meditation as we continue to wait.
“Mr. Caraldi?” a voice draws my attention. I straighten and then stand as I see the doctor return. “Mr. Caraldi, your father has woken. He’s asking to see his son.”
I smile at his words. The conflicting emotions about the man can’t completely stifle the years I’ve spent so desperately seeking his approval. I keep Emma’s hand in mine as the doctor leads us to the intensive care ward, where security guards flank the door to his private room. She draws back as we arrive there. Giving me time to be alone with him.
“Papa!” I say as I shove open the door to his room. My father is swathed in white dressings, tubes and pipes connected to beeping banks of medical machinery. In spite of his condition, one wrist is cuffed to one of the metal railings of the hospital bed.
He stares at me as I walk in. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps. I falter.
“The doctor said you were asking for me.”
Fuck, why do I sound like a nervous boy?
“I asked for myson,” he sneers, and my chest clenches. “Not…not…” he waves a dismissive hand, “you!”
Inadequacy surges before I quickly fight it down. I need nothing from this man. Nothing at all.
Remember who you are, Raoul. What you’ve done.
I walk further into the room, stopping at the side of his bed. His chest rises and falls as he sucks in air, breath rasping. Yet still, his black eyes fix upon me with contempt.
“Where is Dario? I asked for my son,” he repeats.
“Dario had to get back to Nikki,” I tell him. “There are problems with the babies.”
“Coño desagradecido!” he spits. “After all I did for him…he forsakes me for a stupid bitch?”
“For his woman…his family,” I say firmly. “He’s been here the whole day. You’ve been in surgery for hours.”
“And what’s a few hours more for your own father?”
I snort out a laugh.
“Do I need to remind you how you got locked up in the first place?”
He says nothing. Mateo and Dario had equal parts to play in my father’s incarceration. He’s a murderous bastard – that’s been no secret. But killing their own mother? Sometimes even sociopaths can take things a step too far.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, suddenly realizing I don’t actually care.
“I’d be better if there was someone other than you at my side,” he mutters.
Jesus, he’s a cunt.
