Page 36 of The Mad Don
Giovanni is quiet for a moment.
“Why doesn’t she recognize me?”
He says it without turning.
The doctor hesitates. He is choosing his words very carefully. I watch him decide which true answer he can afford to say.
“In her dissociative states, Don Mondi, she is reliving. She is in the original time. The trauma. The body she remembers having.” Another pause. “She cannot reconcile the man you are now with the boy she is trying to protect. So she does not recognize you. She is looking for a child, and you are not one. Her mind refuses the match.”
Giovanni does not say anything.
The doctor waits a moment, sees that nothing more is coming, and turns to gather his bag. His Capo is beside him, and he steps in, touching the doctor’s elbow.
“This way, Doctor.”
At the door, the doctor stops and looks back.
“Don Mondi, please, she must not be stimulated further today.”
The doctor goes, and the door closes.
Giovanni stays where he is, on the side of the bed, his thumb at his sister’s wrist, his eyes on her face. The room is very quiet. I can hear the breathing of the men behind me. I can hear my own, too.
He stays like that for a while, then he stands. He walks towards me without looking at me. His face has gone blank again. He passes within a hand’s width, and he does not slow.
“Bring her.”
His hand grabs around my upper arm before either of his men can react. He yanks me, and I stumble two steps to regain my balance. He does not let go or slow down, and he is walking me out of Lucia’s room.
“Giovanni —”
He does not answer or look at me. His grip is bruising.
He drags me past two rooms and down a flight of stairs. Through a hall I have not seen before. He stops at a heavy wooden door, pushes it open with his shoulder, and pulls me into the room behind him. It’s a study with books along one wall — a desk near the window. A heavy rug covers most of the floor.
He releases my arm and shoves me so hard that my shoulder hits the bookshelf. Two books fall behind me. I plant my feet on the floor, and I try to turn fast, but he is on me, his hand at my throat, pressing me back against the spines of the shelf.
I gasp for breath, and I drive my knee up into his stomach. He grunts, and his grip loosens for a half second. I shove off the shelf and put a few paces between us before he has fully recovered, but he recovers fast. Fast enough that the gun is in his hand before I have my own back foot set.
He points it at my face, and I swallow.
There is anger in his face. I have not, until this room, seen Giovanni Mondi at the edge of his control. The way he is now.
His eyes are not laughing.There is no smile playing under the surface waiting to come out. There is pain behind his eyes that I have never seen there before. I move slowly backward toward the far wall, my hands open, my eyes on his.
My back finds the wall. He follows, and the barrel is still on me.
“Why?”
His voice is quiet.
“Why were you in my sister’s room?”
“I was walking in the corridor.” I keep my voice even. “I heard her call out. The door was open. I stepped in.”
“Cazzata.” The word is low, and he barely opens his mouth around it. “Do you think I’m an idiot? An accident?”
“I’m telling you what happened.”
