Page 71 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“Heath has a fever. He’s hot, confused, barely awake, and he was up most of the night after a nightmare. I don’t know how long he’s been sick because no one told me he hadn’t been sleeping.”
My voice breaks on the last word.
I hate that.
Stefano hears it. He pulls the earpiece out and sets it on the desk. “How high?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a thermometer.”
“Omar.”
“Already getting one,” Omar says behind me.
“Dr. Bellini,” Stefano says, picking up the second phone.
The shift is instant.
No hesitation. No need to ask whether Heath is worth the interruption. No irritation that I came into his office demanding things. No reminder that I have no authority here.
He calls.
Someone answers on the second ring.
“Marco,” Stefano says. “I need you at the house. Now.”
A pause.
“Child. Eight years old. Fever, confusion, poor sleep, possible dehydration, stress response. Bring what you need.”
Another pause.
Stefano’s eyes remain on me while he listens.
“No. Now.”
He ends the call.
“Twenty minutes,” he says.
I stare at him.
It should comfort me.
It doesn't.
“Twenty minutes is too long.”
“It is how long it takes to get here without killing someone on the road.”
“I can drive faster.”
“I know. That is why you aren’t driving.”
I almost snap at him. The words are already there, sharp and useless. Then Heath’s face flashes through my mind, flushed and damp and too small beneath all those blankets, and the anger drops straight through my feet.
Stefano sees that too.
Damn him.
