The Don's Doctor

Avoid the Pomegranates

Chiara's POV

The mountain of muscle prods me awake, while I try to work out where I am. Eventually, the night’s events slot into place. Hovering over my patient, I ignore the clearing of the throat I can hear from the door way. I assume it is an instruction for me to follow him, but I won’t leave until I’ve checked for signs of infection. Luckily, there isn’t any unusual redness or weeping, so I quickly change the dressing, inject a blood thinner, and follow Mr Conversation out of the room.

“Am I free to leave now?”

“Not yet, shower and eat, and then you can go.” He replies, and I’m not sure who, out of the two of us, is more surprised to hear his deep gravelly voice.

Using the front entrance to the house, I marvel at the spiral staircase. Images of Roman Emperors, adorn the column that the steps circled round. Not a soul on earth could be unimpressed by the mock Renaissance style of the interior design. Stacked and silent, the new nickname I had christened my jailor with, opens a door on the corridor where an array of breakfast options are waiting. It instantly triggers my hunger.

“If I eat any of this will I be cursed to spend my life in your service, never to leave the underworld again?” I sarcastically joke.

“Avoid the pomegranates” He returns, and I’m astonished to see he is smiling.

He looks a lot less intimidating when he smiles.

“My name is Renzo. I know we seem abhorrent to you, but I am thankful for what you did for Michael and Vincent last night. I did know Joey, and I really thought that Michael would be safe where we left him, he was desperate to prove himself, and he has a lot of anger. As for Vincent, you have been the first person to have got through to him in a while, and he was shocked that he didn’t know Michael’s name. You can eat safely, and I’ll have your car waiting for when you are ready to go. Your clothes from yesterday have been washed and are hanging off the door frame for after your shower. I’ll come back in an hour.”

Admittedly, I am a little embarrassed that Renzo had seen me eye up the food like it was feeding time at the zoo, but I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. On reflection, Renzo seems polite and respectful, and Vincent had been attentive yesterday, but I couldn’t forget that charm was a criminal’s covert weapon. We learnt that on the first day of our psychology rotation, the best way to de-arm a manipulative patient is to always remember who they really are.

The water is steaming hot, and the pressure massages out the knots in my shoulders. Is this how my father is treated after ‘helping’ the biggest crime family in New York? Pastries and pampering in exchange for his morality. That was another question to add to the list of things I need to ask my father. Anxiety starts to cloud my judgement, as I wonder if my papa has woken up yet. I could be spending extra time in this shower, while my father is struggling with post-operative complications. Quickly dressing, and trying to pull my underwear up over my damp skin, I decide it is time for me to leave.

The house is more like a hotel than a home, and despite my best efforts I can’t find the magnificent stair case that led me hear. Instead, beautiful religious oil paintings adorn the walls in this section of the house, a heavy theme of judgement in each of them. My first reaction is one of interest that a man would invest in such beauty within a world of horror, and then my more critical voice pairs the beauty with the more highly likelihood that it is an efficient way to launder money. Admitting to myself that I am lost, I follow the sound of a baby’s cry, hoping someone will give me directions.

“Hello!” I call out, as I approach the nursery door, decorated with woodland animals, around the name Valentino.

There is no answer to my call, and no answers to my knock. I push the door open, and see a beautiful woman, with thick, black, wavy hair rocking her child while storming across the floor. Bloodshot eyes turn to me accusingly, and instinctively I show her my palms, trying to look as submissive as possible.

“Who the f**k are you? Only family come to this part of the house!” She growls at me in warning.

Hazel eyes fix me in place, like she’s rooting me to the ground. Her black satin pyjamas make her seem more like a panther than a human, and not for the first time I wish I had been patient and waited in the bed room.

“I’m a doctor. I was given a spare room to clean up in, and I got lost trying to find my way to the hallway.” I shout over the baby’s screaming.

She evaluates me from head to toe and back again. I’ve never felt so exposed before, and the tension is sweat inducing as I wait for her to make her decision about me.

“Follow me!” She declares, and I stay two paces behind her the entire way. Thankfully, Valentino’s cries fill the space that the lack of our conversation is leaving.

Despite being convinced she is taking me to an underground cell, we eventually arrive in the hallway, and I assess my guide more closely. Her big eyes are bruising from tiredness, her skin is blotchy and red, and her lips are full of cuts where she’s bit at them in her worry.

“Are you OK?” I asks her, softly.

Wary of her open hostility, I don’t want to provoke a reaction from her, and she is obviously scared of having a stranger in her house, but I can’t ignore how exhausted she looked.

“He never stops crying. The paediatrician say that it is colic and it will pass, but he’s in agony and all I can do is sit and hold him, while he cries. There has to be a better solution! I’m so angry that all I can do is spend hours waiting for it to pass so he can rest a little.” She snaps at me, but my heart throbs for her, and I don’t take it personally.

Motherhood’s labours don’t finish at the birth.

“Can I review him? See if some of the tricks I’ve picked up work for him?”

She is torn. Like when a lioness doesn’t know whether to hunt for food or protect their cub, but eventually she realises that I am no danger to her. Sitting on the final step of the stairs she lies him vertically against her thighs. Gently, I move his knees to his belly and rock him from side to side, it doesn’t produce any wind, but the crying isn’t as heart wrenching.

“How is the winding going, and the output in his nappies?” I ask.

“Winding takes a long time, and he cries through it, nappies seem normal but sometime he can scream the mansion down trying to pass something.” She replies, holding my eye-contact.

“If you’re breast feeding, keep a diary to see what you are eating and monitor if his reaction is worse or better on the days you remove a particular item. If you are bottle feeding maybe consider going down a teat size to control the flow a bit better. These suggestions might work, but sometimes there’s no answers other than time. Although the doctor is correct, it is colic and will eventually settle down. If you’ll pass him to me I can show you some soothing techniques that might help a little?”

Seeming a little more revived now she has a few options to work with, she nods. I take her hand and show her how to lightly massage his belly, the place to focus on when rubbing his back, and suddenly the crying stops, only for an impressive crescendo of wind breaking through to be heard. We both smile at the achievement. Advising plenty of luke-warm baths, and slightly hotter ones for mum, I go to stand and hopefully find the keys to my car. The harshness that was oozing out of the young mum, is now eased and it is lovely to see her laughing with her baby.

“My name is Viviana, I’m Vincent’s sister.” She introduces herself.

“I’m Chiara.” I return.

We both laugh at the baby’s garbled conversation. Joviality is only disturbed when a bear like shadow hovers over us. Assuming it’s the wall of muscle, I’m shocked to find Don Vincent angrily lurching over us, but more shocked that his sister angrily rises and defiantly stares him down from the second step.

“Release the doctor from her prison, while I return to mine, brother. Goodbye Chiara and thank-you, it was a pleasure to meet you.” She turns on a pin, and gracefully leaves the scene like a Hollywood starlet. I’m in awe.

Vincent passes me my car keys.

“You can leave. Your medical bag is in your trunk. We won’t require your services again. We will find other arrangements. As you requested, this will extend to your father.” Vincent informs me with infuriating aloofness.

Digging into his pocket, he brings out a barrel of fifty dollar notes, held together by an elastic band, and tries to push it into my hand. Reactively, I step back and let the wad of cash thump on the floor. The only redeeming aspect of the night was that a life of young boy was saved, to pay me for that made me feel ashamed. Coldness fills me, as I stare at the Don with utter loathing. Mimicking his sister, I turn on a spin and slam the door.