Page 60 of The Mad Don
“Yes,” I say. “She has.”
Fabiano’s eyes come back to me.
“I don’t think I’m comfortable with this,” he says. “I think a doctor should examine her. Today.” He turns to Lucia. “Back to your room, please.”
“No,” I say.
He looks at me.
“Pardon?”
“The Don gave me direct instructions to care for her. I take orders from him. Directly. Not from anyone else in this house.”
The rage moves into his eyes fast. His face stays composed, but his eyes do not.
“This is not a joke,” he says, low. “This is the Don’s sister. If she is harmed under your care, he will not spare you. Do you understand what kind of man he is when it comes to her?”
“I have no intention of harming her,” I say. “Under her brother’s roof. I take my orders from the Don.”
I take the handles of the chair, and I wheel Lucia past him, down the corridor, around the next corner, out of his sight.
I stop the chair in an alcove.
I press my ear to the wall.
I can hear him. He has stayed where he was. He is making a call. His voice is low, but the corridor is stone and stone carries.
“I think we have a problem. A small one.” A pause. “We need to get rid of the Russian.”
Lucia goes white.
I put a finger to my lips. She presses both hands over her own mouth.
“To be safe,” Fabiano is saying, “I’ll have a doctor look at her. Yes. I’ll be more careful now.” Another pause. “But we may need to be more decisive.”
The line ends, and Lucia gasps.
It is small. It is involuntary. It is loud enough.
Fabiano’s voice cuts through the corridor. “Who’s there?”
“Fuck,” I breathe.
I wheel Lucia fast and quiet into the nearest room, a sitting room with the curtains half-drawn, and I pull the door shut behind us and hold the handle.
His footsteps come down the corridor. The crutch and the dragging step. They pass the door. They stop.
“Is anyone there?”
I do not breathe. Lucia does not breathe. My hand is on the handle, and my other hand has found the lamp on the table beside me without my deciding to, fingers around its base.
I see Lucia hold her breath.
The footsteps move on. The crutch fades down the corridor and around the far corner and is gone.
We wait. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Lucia lets her breath out in a thin, shaking stream. She turns in the chair to look up at me, and her eyes are huge in her pale face.
