“Yes. I believe you may be the most disturbed of all my patients.”
“You were a prison psychiatrist at a super-max, Barty. Most of your patients were psychotic killers. And let’s not forget the menagerie of new clients you’ve picked up in the last decade.”
“My point exactly.” He exhales. “Many of them are dealing with mental health disorders that have significantly contributed to their actions. You, on the other hand, are completely sane—medically speaking, of course—and yet, your beliefs are utterly distorted. Your actions do not conform to any sense of morality. For decades, you’ve been driven by your singular focus on power, and you’ve done whatever you deemed necessary to achieve your goals. Including stepping over the barely cold bodies of your enemies. Or anyone, really, if they got in your way.”
“Thank you for that, but I haven’t invited you here so we can discuss my finer qualities.”
“Why am I here at the ass crack of dawn, Adriano?”
I walk up to the floor-to-ceiling windows that face the manicured grounds of my estate. “I’ve encountered something. Something that makes my world not such a dreadful place. A blossoming flower whose aroma eclipses the stink of decay. It’s not driven by love or another romantic notion, but she does make my skies bluer, you could say.”
“Alright.” His tone is cautious. Doc knows me well.
“I know I should leave the flower be,” I continue. “Let it thrive free and untainted. Let it remain pure and untouched. Unpolluted by the likes of me.”
“That sounds sensible. Sometimes the best thing you can do for nature is leave it alone.”
“I know,” I say as I turn to face him.
“Delicate flowers need care to thrive. They need love, Adriano. How could you offer love when you don’t believe such a thing exists?” He stares me down. I know he knows what I’m not saying.Whothe flower is. “Leave the girl alone. Please, Adriano.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You said it yourself—you can do whatever you want.”
“Because I’ve accepted that I can’t function without her. As incredible as it is, she keeps the pain at bay. Without her, I’m liable to blow my brains out during one of my migraines.” I shrug. “And because, as you like to remind me, I get what I want.”
“And she doesn’t have any say in that? Won’t you at least give her the option to choose if she wants to be…acquired?”
“She’ll have her say. I’ll just ensure she makes the right choice.”
Across the room, Bartholomew stares at me with a hawk’s gaze.
“What did you do?”
I meet his stare and smile.
Chapter 18
“It’s okay, Mom,” I try to sound upbeat as we leave the grand, white building. “There’s still the foundation. Hopefully, they’ll have good news. Let’s not give up. We have options.”
“Of course, baby.” She gives me a weak smile. It was probably meant to be reassuring, but Mom doesn’t quite manage to hide the look of defeat in her eyes.
My heart constricts. My mom is the strongest, most resilient woman I know. Before her condition deteriorated, she never gave up when faced with adversity in her life. For years, she held down multiple jobs to put food on our table and keep us clothed. It was necessary because a large part of what my dad earned went to Lucrezia’s mother for child support. After Dad died, Mom worked even harder to make sure we wouldn’t be kicked out of our home.
I remember being eight or nine years old, and Mom setting a big bowl of beef stew on the table for me while she had only a slice of toast with peanut butter on it. When I asked why she wasn’t eating stew, too, she told me that her stomach got upset when she ate meat.
There were a lot of similar instances. She wouldn’t eat cake she’d bring home from work because of heartburn. Tell me to finish off the leftovers of the chicken pot pie because it gave her gas. For the longest time, I was convinced Mom struggled with digestive issues, while in fact, she was going hungry so I couldeat. Pretending for my sake. She never complained. As long as she was physically capable, she didn’t miss a single day of work. And always, whether sick or tired or hungry, she smiled.
I’m worried she’s doing the same now. Giving up and sacrificing once more because she believes she is a burden to me.
“Trust me, Mom, I have a good feeling about this.” I, too, force a smile as we get on the bus. Today seems to be that kind of day—filled with fake reassurances.
The financial transplant coordinator has been helping us explore the various sources of funding. So far, nothing Mom has been approved for. But there is still the charity foundation option. Or, there was.
We’ve been anticipating their decision next week, but, in actuality, I received it this morning. Unfortunately for Mom, there’s another applicant who will be the beneficiary of the organization’s generosity this year.
I’m left with what seems to be my only choice. Asking Ms. Zara for a loan. Knowing how Mom feels about borrowing money, I left that idea simmering in the back of my mind while pursuing the various alternatives suggested by the financial transplant coordinator. I’ve also kept my thoughts about asking Ms. Zara to myself because I know Mom would never allow it. She’s seen what happens to people when they take out a loan from the Mafia and are unable to pay it back. Trying to convince her that the Spadas wouldn’t hurt me won’t help. Even if she believed me, it wouldn’t matter. Mom would never agree to a loan from them.
