Chapter 3 - The Second Visit
The second-floor corridor was silent except for the faint hum of air filters and the quiet rubber soles of Nurse Gwen’s shoes. The air tasted of ozone and antiseptic alcohol. I held Poppy’s small, warm hand in mine. She was wearing her faded yellow sundress, her curls bouncing as she hopped over the marble floor tiles, completely oblivious to the empire hanging in the balance around her.
""Mommy, is the sleeping mister still cold?"" she asked, peering up with wide, innocent brown eyes—eyes that, I now realized with a wrenching heart, were the exact same amber shade as Rosalind Sartori's.
""He's resting, baby,"" I whispered, kneeling down to smooth her hair. ""Remember what we talked about? We speak very softly. We don't touch the wires.""
""Can I give him Mr. Fluff?"" She clutched the rabbit Rosalind had returned to her.
""Yes. But only if you stay right beside me.""
Gwen unlocked the heavy door with an electronic passkey. The room was darkened, heavy silk drapes drawn against the midday sun. In the center lay Matteo Sartori. Up close, stripped of his reputation as New York's most merciless syndicate leader, he looked devastatingly human. His chiseled jaw was covered in weeks of dark, untrimmed stubble. Scars trailed across his collarbone beneath the open collar of his linen shirt.
The heart monitor showed a sluggish rhythm: 48 beats per minute.
Poppy didn't wait for permission. She marched straight to the right side of the bed, placed Mr. Fluff neatly on the pristine white blanket, and rested her tiny palm directly over Matteo’s massive, calloused hand.
""I came back, mister,"" she chirped, completely unafraid of the hiss of the ventilator. ""Mommy said you had a bad bump. When I fall down at the park, Mommy sings the sun song, and my knee stops bleeding.""
Behind us, Gwen gasped quietly.
On the monitor, the line jumped. 52. 58. 64.
Poppy drew in a big toddler breath and began to sing, her voice sweet, clear, and utterly out of place among the machinery of death:
""You are my sunshine, my only sunshine... you make me happy when skies are gray...""
I watched in paralyzed silence. As Poppy reached the second line, the thick, scarred fingers of Matteo Sartori’s right hand twitched. Slowly, against all clinical probability, his fingers curled inward. They did not grasp the sheet. They brushed against Poppy’s tiny knuckles, curling around her small fingers with infinite, trembling gentleness.
Then, behind the closed lids, his eyes moved.
""Nell,"" Gwen whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. ""Look at his pupils.""
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Under the faint glow of the monitors, the heavy dark lashes fluttered. The ventilator let out a sudden hiss as Matteo took an independent, shuddering breath that overrode the machine. His lips parted, cracked and dry.
""Jules..."" he breathed, the sound scraping against his throat like gravel. ""I found... your girl.""
