I walked into the marble-covered veranda and my eyes instantly drifted to the black Lexus SUV parked outside. The driver, dressed in a dark suit, fitted t-shirt, and slacks–all black–leaned on the front door, his brawny arms crossed over his broad chest.
He watched me descend the stairs, scanning me from head to toe, before offering a light bow. "Pleasured to meet you, Mrs Giacomo."
I nodded and smiled. "You must be Mr Buzo," I said.
"At your service, ma'am," he said with another curt bow before opening the door and helped me into the car.
"Where to?" he inquired after he had gone round and taken his position behind the wheel.
"Simpson Clinic," I replied and watched his eyebrows raise. "Dr Derrick Simpson is a neurologist. He is the surgeon treating my mother," I explained, knowing fully well that Francesco or Julio had told him something about me wanting to constantly visit my mother.
"I see," he said and started the car, looking at me through the rearview mirror. "Hope she'll get better soon."
"Thank you," I muttered and picked a straying hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. "I hope so too."
Despite the heavy traffic, it took us less than half an hour to get from Francesco's estate in Bloomsdale, Brooklyn, to the specialist hospital in Manhattan.
Buzo surely had insane, Fast and Furious kind of skills. He maneuvered through the traffic, weaving in-between cars like the transporter himself. I was quite certain he must have participated in some car racing–illegal car racings–like death race.
He parked in front of the glass building and hurried out to open my door.
"I can accompany you inside, Mrs Giacomo," he offered.
"No, it's okay," I refused politely. "And you can just call me Stephanie by the way."
"I think I'll just stick with 'Mrs Giacomo'," he chuckled. "I like my balls where they are."
I blinked, struggling to understand what he meant. "I'm not trying to force you...I call you Buzo, so I just thought..."
A nervous laugh slipped out of his mouth. "Mr Giacomo will rip me apart if he discovered I was calling you by your first name."
I stared at him, my eyebrows furrowed, wondering if he was joking despite sounding so serious. "I don't think Francesco cares–"
"Oh, he does," he said quickly. "In this matter, he's like every other Don I know."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"If there's anything the Dons don't joke with, it's their wives. And you're about to become his wife, which means you're about to be his entirely. From what I've seen so far, Mr Giacomo would deal with any man who dares look at you for more than a second."
My breath caught in my throat and a pleasant shiver ran down my spine.
Surely, possessiveness and irrational jealousy were not the signs of a healthy relationship, but a weird part of me found it...appealing.
And I couldn't deny the attraction between Francesco and I. But I was fairly certain that this was it. It was all more than a contract to last a while. Why else would he be so possessive or jealous if this was just supposed to be a mutually beneficial arrangement and nothing else.
Deciding not to dwell on the subject, I said a quick goodbye to Buzo and walked into the clinic. As I stepped out of the elevator and into the tiled floor of the fourth floor where my mom was, I found Dr Simpson right there in the hallway, talking with one of the nurses.
"Doctor Simpson," I waved. "I came to tell you that I've–"
"Oh, your fiance already took care of all the formalities," the old, balding neurosurgeon said, beaming with smiles. "He paid for the treatment and ordered that I moved her to the VIP floor."
My eyes grew wide. "He did what?"
He placed a fatherly hand on my shoulder. "Maybe he wanted to surprise you. Your mother's new single room is on the seventh floor. I can take you there."
"Please," I said and he led me to the elevator, pushing the buttons.
"Congratulations, by the way," he said as we ascended slowly. "When's the wedding?"
"Um... we haven't decided on a date yet," I muttered.
"You'd surely want your mom to be there, wouldn't you," he asked giving me a warm smile.
My chest tightened and I struggled to breath. It would be natural for me to want my mother present at my wedding. But this situation was painfully different. This was a sham marriage. There was no love and affection between us, let alone a commitment. And my mother would have surely disapproved of my choice of husband.
She had been aware of my father's connections with men of the underworld and that was one of the reasons she didn't want to have anything to do with him.
How disappointed she would be when she discovered I had married a mafia Don. Yet I told myself I wouldn't care. She could hate me all she wanted. All I wanted was for her to be back on her feet, alive.
Of course, Dr Simpson knew nothing about the choice I had made. Francesco would have just made an anonymous call and paid the money for everything.
"I'd love to see my mom in my wedding," I lied and he chuckled.
"But I hope you know the surgery plus the therapy would take a while–weeks, maybe even months."
I didn't like that it would take such a long time. But it was a relief. Francesco would surely want to get married before then. I didn't know when his thirtieth birthday was, but I knew it was dreadfully close.
The car stopped and the elevator doors slid open with a ding. Dr Simpson stepped out and I followed him through the long corridor.
"We'll need to run a few more tests before we even begin," he went on. "And even if the results are good, it's not a guarantee that the treatment would work."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Of course. You told me that the last time."
He nodded.
"But you said this might be the only chance she had," I reminded him. "I just want to be sure I did everything I could."
"You're a good daughter, Stephanie," he said solemnly and scratched the beard under his chin. "I wish I could tell you something more comforting but..."
I shook my head. "I'm glad you're not giving me false hope. I asked for your honesty and I'm grateful for it."
He stopped, drew a short breath and pointed at the door next to us. "This one is where your mother is."
But I could tell already. Two Italian men in dark suits and distinct tattoos stood guard at the steel door. No doubt they were stationed there by Francesco to ensure no harm came to my mother.
"Ms McMahon?" Dr Simpson called out, making me stop at the threshold and turn around. "I promise we'll do everything to save your mother."
"I know," I managed to say through my knotted throat. "That's why I still have hope."
....
I sat by my mom's bed, staring at her sleeping face. She looked calm and peaceful, and prettier from her relief from all the stress of the life before her coma. Hardly any wrinkle marked her pretty face.
She shouldn't be lying here, confined to a bed. I missed our jokes. I missed her smile and her laughter. I missed all the things we had done together...
A lone tear strayed down my cheek and held on to my chin. "Mom," I croaked. "I know you wouldn't approve of this...but I...I ran out of options...I had no other choice."
She didn't move.
I swallowed and lifted her palm to my cheek. "His name is Francesco Giacomo. He paid for your treatment...made sure you finally have a chance..."
I swallowed hard. She would call it blood money. She would say I married a murderer. I could only hope that one day she would be able to forgive me.
I kissed her knuckles, triggering more tears. I had often cried sitting here, but the tears I shed this time was not a sign of my helplessness. It was because I was more hopeful than ever.
A nurse entered to check on mom. Another one, male, entered a moment after her.
"We have to conduct a few tests on your mother," he said. "It won't take long."
I nodded, hurriedly wiping my tear-stained cheeks.
"It's okay. I wanted to grab a cup of coffee anyway.
"The machine is down the hall and the cafeteria is on the first floor," the male nurse offered.
"Thank you," I muttered and pivoted out quickly, suddenly remembering Buzo's words about Francesco killing any man who dared look at me for more than a second.
I chose the espresso maker since I knew the coffee there was cheaper than the one in the cafeteria. I had not sold any if my paintings recently and I was slowly running out of money. So I had to be cautious the way I spent my money, at least until I uploaded pictures of my paintings on my Instagram.
I was walking down the hall when I heard noise coming from one of the rooms.
"Just give her some fucking sedatives for fuck's sake!" I heard a man's hoarse growl.
I froze, stopping in front of the door.
Why did the voice sound so familiar?
"Sir, you should calm down first. You shouts are certainly not helping your wife–" someone, probably the doctor, said calmly.
"I pay you to fix her!"
"Your wife is mourning. It's only natural to–"
The sound of crashing glass violently ended the discussion.
I willed my feet to move and had barely taken a step when the door opened and a man came out of the room. I made to sidestep him but he stood in my way.
Swallowing, I raised my eyes to his...
Drake...