Page 58 of Frozen Heart
We step into the elevator, and the driver waves a key card in front of a sensor, then punches in a six-digit code. He doesn’t press the button for any particular floor, but regardless, the car starts moving upward. With my back pressed to the shiny, metal wall, I stare at the display of changing numbers. We’re approaching the last—the thirty-second floor—when the digits go dark, but the elevator keeps climbing. Finally, it slows down and stops.
The doors slide open, soundlessly revealing elegant, luxurious décor. Pearl-white marble walls. Dark-brown and bronze wood accents. Ceilings that easily reach more than twelve feet in height. Magnificent works of black-and-white abstract art. And in the midst of this vast, breathtaking space, a black marble-topped reception desk. Unoccupied, yet still intimidating. Guarding a set of imposing double doors.
“Straight ahead, through those doors.” The driver’s voice almost causes my heart to spring free of my body. “I’ll wait in the lobby.” He holds the elevator door, allowing me to come out.
I take a few tentative steps across the spotless, glass-like marble tile. The soles of my sneakers squeak against the polished stone. The sound is slight, barely audible, but to me, it echoes like rolling thunder through this opulent hall.
Despite the sophisticated beauty, the space feels cold. As I look around, I notice bronze-looking sculptures. Figures of people in disturbing, unnatural forms—most appearing to be nude—sit in the corners of the room, and I can’t help feeling like they’re watching me. I shudder.
The tall doors loom before me. Dark brown. Carved with a geometric design. A rippling wave.
Ajar.
Allowing a glimpse into the office beyond.
My heart rate takes off as if trying to outrun my thoughts. With every step I take, the pounding on my chest wall gets harder. Until it feels like my rib cage might explode. That’s nothing new. It happens every time I get near Adriano Ruffo. I can’t be certain if it’s from excitement or unease. I’m going to go with the latter.
I don’t knock.
When I reach the doors, I just walk in. Not sure why. Knocking on doors and waiting to be granted permission to enter was ingrained in me long before I started working for the don. Maybe because I want to fool myself into believing that I have even a smidgen of control over my own life.
Two steps across the threshold, and I come to a sudden stop. Stunned by the view before me. Beyond the enormous wall of glass, Boston Harbor and the city skyline unfurl in all their glory.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
My eyes snap toward the voice in the far corner of the room. Ruffo stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his gaze fixed on the view. His arms are crossed over his chest, the pose making the arm muscles strain beneath the fabric of his jacket.
“It is,” I rasp, not entirely sure if I’m referring to the panorama outside or the man inside this room. Standing there, he exudes power, like an imposing ruler observing his domain. “Why am I here, Mr. Ruffo?”
“Since the culprit responsible for my wife’s death hasn’t yet been found, the investigation remains open.” He turns his head, pinning me with that hard, icy gaze. The distance between us seems to shrink. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was only an arm’s length away. “The detective in charge of the case came knocking on my door this week, asking additional questions.”
I take an involuntary step back. “I won’t say a thing, I promise.”
“I know you won’t. Please, have a seat and take a look at those.” His chin lifts slightly toward the enormous mahogany desk at the center of the office and several neatly stacked piles of papers on it. The only chair, though, is the massive executive one tucked next to the desk. I assume it’s his.
“Do you need me to sign some kind of statement, an NDA?” I ask as I approach the desk. “I’ll sign whatever—”
The rest of my words die when my eyes fall on the first page of the nearest stack. My mother’s name is highlighted at the top, and below is the breakdown of her latest hospital bill.What in the world?
I drop into the leather seat and leaf through the papers. Outstanding balances. Previous bills. My credit card statements. And then, an estimate of expenses for pre- and post-surgical care if my mom were accepted on the transplant list and was luckyenough to get a match. Even without her name on the page, I would have recognized the amount. The number has been a recurring nightmare. I see it each time I close my eyes. Each time I taste the tears of defeat.
“I had my personal physician review your mother’s case.” Ruffo’s voice booms into the stretched silence.
My head snaps up. “How did you get access to her medical records?”
“I have the means.” He is still next to the window in the far corner, but his attention is trained on me now. “It would appear she doesn’t have much time left. And as I understand, she won’t survive another cardiac arrest. Which could happen any second.”
“Don’t say that!” I choke back tears, but they run down my cheeks anyway. “She won’t die. I need her—”
“Be that as it may, without a transplant, your mother has no hope of survival. Each day of delay is a dangerous gamble.” His words land on me like a thousand-ton weight.
Struck utterly motionless, I watch as Ruffo approaches the desk. He opens the top drawer, moves a leather-bound daily planner to the side, and takes out a folder that was lying underneath. Spreading it open, he arranges the contents in front of me. Inside, something that looks like the results of a lab analysis with a bunch of writing and numbers I don’t understand. The name of the patient on the top line is redacted with a black marker, but beneath it, the gender field indicates male. These are obviously not my mother’s, but my eyes snag on a yellow sticky note attached to the bottom of the page. On it, one word, written in bold red ink.
MATCH
“It’s very unfortunate your mother hasn’t been approved and officially listed as eligible for a transplant,” Ruffo states, his tone holding that slightly wicked air. “Especially now, when there appears to be an identified matching donor.”
I blink, staring at the folder. What is going on? Why is he showing me this? And what does my mother’s health have to do with the murder investigation?
