Page 54 of Vicious Heir

“Come to his room tomorrow morning,” he says at last. “Papa’s the best in the morning. Donatella will show you where.”

I nod a little. “Okay, I’d like that.”

“Good.” He turns his head and closes his eyes. “Now go to sleep and quit staring at me.”

I shift onto my other side. But I’m listening to him breathe as my mind goes soft and begins to unfurl toward sleep.

“He said this was okay?”Donatella seems genuinely surprised. It’s a little past eight in the morning, and I found her in the kitchen cooking breakfast.

“We talked about it last night.”

“Well, alright, if he says so.” She hesitates, considering her next words. “What do you know about dementia patients, dear?”

“Not much,” I admit. “Just the sort of stuff you see on TV.”

“Well, he’s in the late stages. Salvatore isn’t himself anymore. He’s not good around strangers, so don’t be surprised if he gets agitated. You won’t be able to understand most of what he says, and that’s okay. Treat him like you do anyway. Don’t be surprised if he does things over and over, like put on and take off his shoes. If he gets agitated, just leave, and don’t take it personally.”

I start to wonder if this is a good idea, but it’s too late. Donatella leads me across the mansion and into a wing I’ve never visited before. A guard’s waiting at the end of the hall in front of a large ornate door, and he glances at me warily before letting us through.

Inside is a comfortable suite. It looks like it’s well cared for. Books line the shelves and framed photos cover the end tables. They show all sorts of men, mostly Italian-looking, probably members of the Marino Famiglia. I recognize Adriano’s father immediately. They have the same jaw, the same body size, the same eyes.

“There you two are,” Donatella says, heading into another room.

I follow her and linger in the doorway.

There’s a bed against one wall and a big easy chair beside that. An old man’s sitting in the chair, leaning forward, frowning at the TV. He’s watching a black-and-white Western show, one I don’t recognize. Adriano’s on a folding chair beside him, gently helping him eat from a bowl of yogurt. Donatella fusses around the room, straightening up as she goes.

I stare in astonishment. Big, powerful, terrifying Adriano is so soft and patient with his father. I observe for a few minutes asAdriano coaxes more spoonfuls into his father’s mouth, feeding the old man like a child. Though at one point, his father shakily takes the spoon and tries to feed himself. When he makes a mess, Adriano cleans it up gently and takes over before gesturing me over.

“Papa, I want you to meet someone. This is my wife, Lucille.”

Salvatore Marino, Don of the Marino Famiglia, looks at me with soft, unfocused eyes. He frowns slightly, his eyebrows pinching down. Then he mumbles, and I can’t understand him.

For a second, I panic. Then I look over at Donatella, and she gestures at me like,go ahead and talk.

I smile at Adriano’s father. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Marino.”

He mumbles again, looking back at the TV.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” I ask him, pulling up a chair.

Adriano looks at me, almost suspicious. But when his father says nothing, Adriano goes back to helping him eat.

I watch the show. Salvatore murmurs a few times, and I respond to him like we’re chatting about the characters. All the while, Adriano is shockingly caring and patient until the food is all gone. Donatella takes away the tray, and we’re left to finish the show together.

Salvatore grumbles and shifts in his seat like he can’t get comfortable. Adriano calms him a few times, gently patting his arm and helping to adjust him. I smile and talk as though this were all totally fine, but it breaks my heart to see Adriano like this. I would never have imagined such a vicious, brutal man could be so soft with someone.

But it’s like a new light is shining inside my husband.

The show ends. Adriano gets up and says goodbye to his father. The old man only mumbles back. I bend down and kiss his cheek on a total whim, not sure why I even do it. For a second, Salvatore stares at me, frowning, and I feel Donatella and Adriano tensing.

But the old man smiles. “Pretty girl. Come back and see me again.”

“I’d be happy to,” I say, smiling back.

Adriano ushers me away. He seems agitated and torn as we walk down the hallway together. At the stairs, he turns and faces me.

“Don’t talk about my father’s condition with anyone,” he says, his tone sharp. The softness is all gone. “Especially not with anyone in the Famiglia. None of the guards. None of the captains. Do you understand?”

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