Page 69 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
She moves the rest of the way like the mattress might shatter. Then she curls near his side without touching too much, clutching Mr. Buttons to her chest and watching him with huge wet eyes.
“Is he going to die?”
The question is so blunt and small and terrified that for half a second, I cannot breathe.
“No,” I say.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
I soften it because children hear desperation even when adults call it confidence. “No, sweetheart. He has a fever. We’re going to get a doctor.”
“What if the doctor is bad?”
“He won’t be.”
“What if Dad knows him?”
The room goes cold.
I glance toward the doorway, but Omar is still in the hall, voice low and urgent. I turn back to Erin and brush her hair out of her damp face. She lets me. That alone tells me how scared she is.
“He won’t be your dad’s doctor,” I say. “He’ll be Stefano’s.”
Her lower lip trembles. “Is that better?”
I wish I had a clean answer.
Instead, I give her the only one I can trust. “Right now, yes.”
Erin looks toward the door. “Where is Stefano?”
“Coming, probably.”
“Will he be mad?”
“No.”
“At Heath?”
“No.”
“At me?”
“No, Erin.”
“At you?”
That one stalls me.
Probably.
Maybe.
Always.
Not for this.
