Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“I’m here, tesoro,” her mother whispers from the other side of her bed as her thumb strokes her left hand. “I’m not going anywhere, so you take all the time you need to rest. It’s my turn to take care of you.”
Valentina’s eyelids flutter, and I swear a ghostlike smile twitches on her mouth when I correct her mother’s promise. “It’s our turn to take care of you.”
Hours later, in the silence of the ICU room Valentina was recently moved into after recovery, Concetta uses the alone time to interrogate me. We had a dozen nurses and doctors between us in the recovery unit, so this is her first opportunity. “Did you know Valentina was planning to sell her eggs?”
Too shocked to remain tight-lipped, I shake my head. She said she knew Valentina was pregnant because a mother knows, but I didn’t know motherly instincts stretched this far.
“Did you?”
Her eyes lock with mine, and they shimmer with unshed tears. “I suspected,” she says softly. “She didn’t tell me. I found a prescription for gonadotropin the first night she didn’t come home from her interview.” She returns her eyes to Valentina, who now looks like she’s sleeping instead of fighting for her life. “I wasn’t snooping. I just needed to know you were okay.” Her hand tumbles when she runs it down Valentina’s cheek. “I wanted to ask you, but I didn’t want you to feel ashamed.” A broken sound escapes her. It’s jagged and bitter. “I also didn’t want to explain how I knew what gonadotropin is administered for.” With six short words, she underhandedly announces who her daughter got all her good qualities from. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” A huff rattles in her chest as she returns her focus to me. “If only they were interested in fifty-five-year-old, overcooked menopause eggs, then maybe this could have been avoided.”
Laughter whistles from my nose. It’s unexpected, but it lowers my agitation a ton. I hate what Valentina has gone through and what she still has to face, but if she hadn’t gone to the clinic on that specific day, I could still be scrounging the streets of Carlisle, trying to find her.
Concetta cuts off the peculiar sensation bombarding me by reminding me I still have a minefield to tiptoe across before I’m close to putting this chapter of my life to bed.
“Who was that lady earlier? The one in the ER? I know she was at the dinner party, but anytime I went to introduce myself, she scuttled off.”
Not wanting even a snippet of frustration to hinder Valentina’s recovery, I guide Concetta to the corridor outside her room before answering. “That was Valeria Giuffrida.”
“Giuffrida,” she whispers, as if testing the name out to see if it’s a good fit.
When her brows furrow, stumped, I ask, “Do you know her?”
Her headshake isn’t overly convincing, so she adds words to the mix. “It’s probably for the best. I would have hesitated slogging her with my bat if she were the daughter of someone I know. Now my conscience is clear.”
Before I can assure her a clear conscience isn’t needed for someone like Valeria Guiffrida, the doctor who saved Valentina’s life joins us in the corridor. I owe him everything, and the way he walks like his head is shoved up his ass announces he knows this.
He can strut. If he asked for my soul right now, I’d hand it over without blinking.
“Signor Ca—”
“Please, call me Giovanni.”
He hesitates, then bobs his head. “Giovanni… We ran an urgent blood workup to check the function of Valentina’s kidneys and found something concerning in her bloodwork.”
My recently cooling temper peaks, but I leave the floor to him, realizing sometimes muscle isn’t needed in cases like this. Strength is.
The doctor’s expression hardens. “She had a high dose of strychnine in her system. In the past, strychnine was administered to treat human illnesses, but today, it’s mainly used as a pesticide to kill rats. Symptoms of strychnine poisoning usually overcome a patient within fifteen to sixty minutes. If you hadn’t gotten her here as fast as you did…”—he exhales slowly like his following words are as hard for him to deliver as they are for me to hear—“she wouldn’t have made it.” He glances toward Valentina’s room as a professional mask slips over his face. “I need to order additional tests. As you saw, strychnine poisoning causes extreme negative health effects, so I need to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
“Wait.” My commanding tone freezes him halfway into the room. “How was it administered?”
I’ve heard of strychnine before, but only when running a street dealer out of Palermo for mixing it with LSD, heroin, and cocaine to make the hit faster for his customers.
Faster and deadlier.
Palermo had a record number of drug-related deaths that year.
The doctor flips through Valentina’s chart before scanning her notes. “It was ingested.”