Page 77 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Physically.
The word sits there.
Stefano hears it too. “And otherwise?”
Bellini looks toward the bed. Heath has turned his face toward Erin, who is perched near his side with Mr. Buttons in a death grip.
“That boy has not slept properly in some time,” the doctor says. “His body is worn down. Children can endure more than they should, but eventually the body collects the debt. Fever, collapse, stomach issues, headaches—stress finds a way out.”
My nails dig into my palm.
“He needs counseling,” Bellini continues. “Real counseling. Consistent. Someone experienced with trauma. And he needs to be kept somewhere stable. Safe. Predictable. Whatever frightened him enough to keep him awake, he cannot keep living as if it is about to walk through the door.”
For a moment, no one speaks.
Safe.
Stable.
Predictable.
Three words that do not belong in Stefano Savarese’s house, and yet somehow this house may still be the safest place Heath has been in years.
That makes me want to scream.
Stefano’s voice is calm when he answers. “Arrange it.”
Bellini looks at him. “A child therapist?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“For now.”
My head turns. “For now?”
Stefano’s gaze meets mine. “Unless you would prefer I make long-term decisions about your sister’s children without you.”
That shuts my mouth.
Not because it is kind.
Because it is not cruel when it could have been.
Bellini nods. “I’ll make calls. Quietly.”
“Good,” Stefano says.
The doctor returns to Heath with instructions, most of them common sense and all of them suddenly impossible to hold in my head. Fever reducer schedule. Fluids. Lukewarm cloth if the fever climbs. Call if his breathing changes, if the fever spikes, if he becomes difficult to rouse, if he cannot keep fluids down.
Stefano listens to every word.
Omar listens too.
I listen and feel like the worst aunt in the world because some part of me wants someone else to write it down.
Stefano does.
