Page 15 of Frozen Heart
“Don’t I?”
His gentle hold on my hand grows firmer, pressing my fingers to the bottom of the tray. Something fiery and dangerous flares in those glacial depths. Did I offend him? New fear slams into my mind.
At the conference table, the discussion between the three men gets more heated. Simultaneous shouts erupt. It only makes my situation more surreal. Makes my skin tight. Makes my heart pound.
“No,” he replies.
I blink. Staring at him, completely dumbfounded. Is it possible I misunderstood? Misinterpreted what happened in Capo Brio’s library? Was it really someone else who killed his wife? Was he there only because he discovered her body, just as I thought that night? Was he also in shock? And, perhaps, he’s covered up what actually happened because he’s trying to figure out who is truly responsible for her death? The man before me,the man helping me steady my hand, he doesn’t look like a murderer to me.
“Did you do it?”
The words tumble out of my mouth before I realize I opened it. Horrified, I try to pull away, aghast at my own stupidity. But like a shackle, his hand is tight on mine.
That icy flame flares back in his eyes as Mr. Ruffo leans forward. His hot breath fans my ear. “With tremendous satisfaction.”
He lets go of my hand, and I manage a step back, still gripping the tray as if my life depends on it. I eye Ruffo like I’m seeing him for the very first time. With caution. With alarm. Before now, I wanted to believe that he was innocent. That he was incapable of such a heinous crime. I stare. I dread. I can no longer pretend. And Ruffo simply sits back and picks up the documents from the coffee table. His glacial focus once again on the papers in his hand, casually scanning the contents.
“Iris!”
I spin around, startled by Rina’s urgent tone. She’s hovering near the doorway, a phone lodged in her trembling hands. Worry is written all over her face as her gaze flits between Don Spada and me.
“Evelyn…your neighbor…is on the phone.” Rina’s voice shakes, and she extends her arm as if she expects me to take the call right then and there. “She’s been trying to reach you. It’s… It’s your mom. She fainted. The ambulance has already been called.”
The tray slips from my hands. The clatter and the sound of shattering glass explode into the suddenly quiet space. I fly out of the conference room as fast as my feet can carry me.
My purse and jacket are in the cubby in the staff quarters, where we stash all our personal belongings while we work. It’s all the way on the other side of the house. I rush by a bunch of confused maids, a few lingering construction guys, and the bewildered Timoteo, the butler. Grabbing my things, I head straight for the front door.
Halfway down the front stairs, I realize it will take the better part of two hours for me to reach home or the hospital, if that’s where Mom was taken. I first need to get to the nearest bus stop, which is almost a twenty-minute walk away from the Spada Estate. Damn! Damn! Damn! I should have asked Ms. Zara if one of the security guys could give me a ride.
As I’m about to run back inside, a sleek black stretch car pulls up at the foot of the stairs.
“Miss Iris?” the driver asks through the open window.
“Yes.”
He exits immediately and scurries to open the back passenger door. “I’ve been instructed to give you a lift. Please.” He motions for me to get in.
A relieved sigh leaves my lips. Ms. Zara must have sent him when she heard about my mom. That woman is an angel. I rush toward the vehicle.
“Thank you,” I breathe as I get in and fasten the seat belt, noting another set of seats across from me, like in a limo. “Please, let Ms. Zara and Don Spada know how much I appreciate their help.”
The driver’s gaze finds mine in the rearview mirror. “No problem at all. I’ll make sure the boss receives your thanks.”
The car takes off toward the gate.
***
“She is stable now, but her condition is worsening,” Dr. Reynolds says. “I’d like to keep her overnight, at least, for observation, but your mother has refused.”
The heavy weight inside my chest shifts, allowing me to draw my first full breath of the last three hours. The relief lasts less than the blink of an eye because Mom’s doctor continues to stress all sorts of “shoulds.” Should be admitted, should run more tests, take more medications and try more treatments, and finally…the transplant.
“She still won’t consider the waitlist,” Dr. Reynolds says in a more hushed tone. “Without that step, her chances are… Well, we’ve been through all this already. Did you reach out to the foundation we discussed? If they agree to help, perhaps your mom will change her mind?”
“I…uh…I have,” I choke out. “The application status is pending. Could I…?” I wave my thumb over my shoulder, where my mom is resting on the hospital bed behind a half-closed curtain.
“Yes, of course. She really should be admitted for the night.”
And I would allow you to do it in a heartbeat, but it’s not my call.
