Page 43 of The Mad Don
I will tell her I know about her brother.
And then I will tell her how she will behave for the rest of her stay in this house.
I sit down behind the desk. I lay the tablet face down on the wood.
She moved me.I am willing to say it to myself. She moved me in a way no woman in my adult life has, and I do not know what to do with that.
I will play with her a little more — until a month is up — and then I’ll decide what to do with her. Which door to choose.
A knock comes, and I sit up subconsciously. She came quickly.
“Come in.”
The door opens, but it’s not her.
It is two of Lucia’s maids, with my Lucia in between them.
I am on my feet before the door has fully opened. They are supporting her as she walks inside. Her face is the color of paper, and her breath is coming in small, fast pulls, and there is a sheen of sweat on her temple and her upper lip.
But she is smiling.
“Angel.”
The maids brace as I take her from them, and I lower her carefully into the chair by the window, the deep one with the high back. Her hand finds my wrist. She is so much lighter than she should be.
“You shouldn’t be up.” My voice has gone soft. I cannot help it. “Lucia, what are you doing out of bed?”
“I wanted air.” She is panting. The smile is still there. “I wanted to see you. Don’t be angry with them. I begged them.”
I look at the maids.
They are trembling at the door — both of them. The taller one has gone the color of dough.
“You let her out of the bed.”
“Sir, she —”
“I begged them.” Lucia’s voice is faint but firm. She has lifted her hand from my wrist to my cheek. Her palm is cold. “Giovanni. Don’t. Don’t be cross with them. I asked. I asked many times. Or did you not want to see me today?”
I lower myself to one knee beside the chair, so she does not have to look up.
“Of course, I wanted to see you.”
“Then don’t be cross.”
“I won’t.”
I look past her at the maids, and I give them the smallest jerk of my chin. They understand, they back out of the room, and the door closes behind them.
Lucia closes her eyes for a moment. The smile stays.
“Water,” she says. “Please. I’m dry.”
“Yes! Yes, here.”
I go to the small fridge in the corner of the study, the one I keep for late nights. I take out a bottle, pour it into a glass, and bring it back. I crouch beside her again and hold it out.
Her hand reaches, and she takes it. I should have seen the shake in her fingers. I am watching her face, not her hand, and the glass is between her fingers for a half-second, then it is not.
