“Thank you.” I practically soar over the tiled floor even as heaviness still clings to my chest. It hasn’t dissipated since I ran out of Ruffo’s office three days ago.
Mom was admitted to this private hospital, one I had never even heard of, that very same day. Just as Ruffo promised. And just as he promised, she had the heart transplant surgery that day, too. The medical center’s policy prohibits visitors, even family members, in the Intensive Care Unit. I wasn’t allowed to see Mom until she was moved this morning.
I all but barge into the room. My gaze immediately seeks out my mother. For days, I’ve been imagining nothing but worst-case scenarios. That something had gone wrong, and the doctors and nurses were lying to me. In a secret hospital run by Boston Cosa Nostra, somehow, I wouldn’t put it past them.
“Mom!” I cry, rushing toward the bed.
A comfortable-looking armchair is set nearby, but I completely ignore it and instead kneel by Mom’s bedside to take her hand in mine.
“I thought they’d never let me see you. I figured something had gone wrong and—”
“I’m okay,” she rasps, squeezing my hand.
Letting my forehead fall onto the back of Mom’s hand, I exhale. She’s fine. That doesn’t stop the tears from welling in my eyes. I could’ve lost her. Likely would have, if it weren’t for Adriano Ruffo.
“Where am I, Iris?” she asks. “Because this sure as hell doesn’t look like a regular hospital.”
I lift my head, only now starting to process the unusually luxurious surroundings.
Fresh morning breeze and sunlight are pouring in through the half-open balcony doors. Beyond them, the view is nothing short of a watercolor painting. A sprawling green lawn and glittering water in the distance. I couldn’t have guessed this view was tucked away behind the building when Mom and I were brought to this medical center by Ruffo’s driver after I ran from that cold, blood-soaked office.
The pastel peach walls are decorated with colorful landscapes in bold, ornate frames. There’s a little sofa in the corner. A small dining table with a couple of upholstered chairs at it. Basically, the place is the furthest thing from a common hospital room.
“It’s the same hospital you were admitted to, Mom.”
She narrows her eyes at me. Even exhausted and probably in pain, she manages to levy that hard look of hers that she brings out whenever someone is trying to sell her crap.
“For starters, I’m the only one in this room, and it has an en suite bathroom. Over there is a reading nook with a couch and a bookshelf. Fancy drapes on the windows and a balcony to boot. What kind of hospital has all that?”
“A private one.”
“And how in the world can we afford a private hospital?”
My stomach turns at the idea of lying to my mom. We’ve never done that with each other. Even while I was still a child, both she and I always told the truth. Regardless of how ugly it was or how hard to hear. Until now.
I meet her gaze and force myself to smile, inhaling deeply to buy some time while I gather my courage to spin this for her. “The…party…responsible for you getting the transplant has an arrangement with this specific hospital. Don’t worry.”
With every uttered word, acid scorches my throat. How many more lies will I have to tell her? She’ll demand a full explanation. Throw a million questions at me. But she can never find out what I’ve done.
Over the last three days, I contemplated telling her the truth. Not right away, but maybe eventually. She might understand and forgive me for unknowingly dooming a person to his death to save her. However, something told me Mom would never be okay with that.
As I search for what I can say next, I’m interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Excuse me.” The nurse from earlier comes in, carrying a large bouquet of sunflowers and white daisies. “This just arrived for you, Mrs. Fabbri.”
“These are probably from Ms. Zara.” I meet the nurse midway and take the flowers from her. “She’s been asking about you every day. I’ll set them here on the table. Ah! There’s a card.”
I pull a small white envelope from between the blooms. As I unfold the premium paper, the breath gets lodged inside my lungs.
“Iris? Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Um… It’s not from the Spadas.”
“Who sent it then?”
I glance at the typed-out note.
Wishing you a speedy recovery.
