Chapter 7

Luca

I didn't ask Vito to come to the Long Island estate. I told him to come straight to the Manhattan apartment, because I didn't want Grandpa's people to run into us in the hallways of the old house—didn't want them to happen to pass by, happen to see, happen to let Vito tell everyone else about my current symptoms.

When Vito pushed through the door today, he looked me over for a while longer than usual, then shook his head. "Mr. Ferretti, you've lost more weight."

"I know."

"Still throwing up?"

"Yes." Every word I spoke felt like it was being squeezed out of my throat. My voice was hoarse, and there was an annoying pain in my throat. "I've thrown up so much I'm about to damage my vocal cords. Listen to my voice—even I can't stand how I sound."

Vito set his medical bag on the coffee table and methodically removed his coat, hanging it over the back of a chair. "You told me on the phone this was serious. Surely it's not just because of the vomiting."

After a few seconds of silence, I let out a heavy sigh. This wasn't the kind of thing I was good at saying, especially not to a man who'd watched me grow up from infancy. But today I had no other choice.

"My dick's broken." I said. "I don't get morning wood anymore. Even when I try to coax it, it won't stand up—well, not that it won't stand up at all, but when it does manage to, it's this half-dead thing. A couple days ago Marco got me a stripper to come over. That girl spent half an hour in front of me wearing barely a few inches of fabric from head to toe, and I had zero reaction."

Vito pulled his stethoscope from the medical bag and nodded gently. "Mr. Ferretti, pregnancy torments you like this. You'll feel better once you get through this phase."

"I'm not pregnant, Vito." I stared at the curve rising at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't ask you here because I'm pregnant. I asked you here because my dick is on strike. Can you please distinguish the priority between these two things?"

“As I told you before, this is sympathetic pregnancy. Decreased libido is just another manifestation of it.”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to swallow back the curse word. As I swallowed it down, my stomach turned again, and I almost had to rush to the bathroom.

Vito sighed and pressed the stethoscope against my chest, listening while he spoke. "Your current state isn't abnormal. Mr. Ferretti, hear me out. Your endocrine system is doing something for someone else that your body doesn't normally need to do—hormone levels are imbalanced, your liver and kidney metabolic burden has increased, and the entire system is operating out of alignment. That part of your function is temporarily offline because your body is concentrating resources elsewhere. Once you stop vomiting, your body will return to normal."

"When will I stop throwing up?"

Vito looked at me for a second, his eyes carrying that "you're probably not going to like this answer" emotion.

"Under normal circumstances, four or five months."

I didn't speak. I felt my ears ring, like someone had hit me in the back of the head with a baseball bat.

After the basic examination was complete, Vito packed up his medical bag and gave me a few instructions about dietary precautions. I didn't hear a single word. When he left, I collapsed on the couch, rested my head against the back, and closed my eyes.

The apartment was as quiet as the bottom of the ocean.

I fumbled for a bottle of root beer from the coffee table—it was the only thing I'd found in these past days that I could reliably get into my stomach without immediately throwing it back up. I twisted off the cap and gulped down three big mouthfuls. The taste of sugar mixed with carbonated bubbles exploded in my throat, and the churning feeling in my stomach was barely suppressed by an inch.

My phone buzzed. Anna.

"Luca," her voice bounced through the receiver, "Grandpa wants you home for dinner."

"What's wrong with him now."

"How should I know," she said. "He told me to drive over and pick you up. I'm already on the way. I'll be downstairs in half an hour."

"I don't want to ride with a speed demon."

"Then take a cab back and see if Grandpa gets angry."

I closed my eyes and didn't answer.

"Luca," she drew out the sound, "I'm already on the BQE. I can't turn back."

I asked, "Are you driving the convertible?"

"Yes."

"Then come on over."

She hung up faster than I did.

Half an hour later I went downstairs. Anna's red convertible was parked by the curb. She was wearing sunglasses and waving at me, her face bright with a smile, showing off a set of straight teeth inherited from the Ferretti family line. I glanced at the car and sighed silently, then pulled open the passenger door and got in.

"Buckle up," she said. "I never drive slow, as you well know."

"I just told you on the phone—"

She hit the gas.

The car shot forward, and that chunk of root beer I'd barely managed to keep down did a somersault in my stomach. I quickly turned my head toward the window, letting the wind rush into my throat. Anna glanced at me and didn't take it seriously at all. At the next intersection she passed two cars in a row, displaying that reckless abandon unique to Ferretti daughters. I used to find it amusing when I saw it in her; today I wished I could throw her out of the driver's seat and drive myself.

When we hit a red light, she finally turned to look at me. The next second she jumped.

"—Luca, why is your face so pale?!"

"I told you my stomach wasn't feeling well." I rested my head against the car window, eyes closed. "If you keep driving like this, believe it or not, I'll throw up all over your piece-of-junk car."

"You should've said so earlier!"

"I did say so."

"I didn't hear you."

Anna drove at the lowest speed of her entire life. The ten-plus miles took her nearly forty minutes. By the time we finally turned into the long private drive of the Ferretti estate, it was completely dark. The lights of the main house were lit one by one, and the old-fashioned wrought iron lanterns illuminated the stone steps in a warm golden glow.

Grandpa was standing on the porch waiting for us.

He was leaning on that ebony cane of his. When he saw Anna's car pull up at the bottom of the steps, that particular anger of his—the kind that didn't need words to send a chill down your spine—was already pressing down from his brow.

"Out messing around until this hour again." he said.

"I wasn't." I protested quietly.

"Look at yourself." he said. "Just a few days and you're this thin. Have you been fooling around with Claire again lately?"

I suppressed the churning in my stomach, and when I spoke my voice was as hoarse as sandpaper: "Grandpa, what did you need me for?"

"Eat first." he said, turning to walk inside. "We'll talk after."

Anna and I followed him into the dining room. Everyone else had already arrived—they were all seated at the table, which was set with the kind of old-style Italian family feast dishes Grandpa loved: shiny meat sauce, pan-fried veal cutlets seared to perfection, fresh-from-the-oven roasted vegetables, and a large pot of steaming cream of mushroom soup.

The moment that smell hit my nose, I knew I was done for.

I didn't even finish saying "I need to use the bathroom" before I was already bracing one hand on the edge of the dining table, covering my mouth with the other, and rushing toward the nearest powder room.

I threw up until the world spun.

I vomited until there was nothing left in my stomach to bring up, only wave after wave of dry heaving that squeezed my ribs inward. I knelt in front of the toilet until a faint metallic taste appeared in my mouth, and I realized I'd thrown up blood.

There were footsteps behind me. First Anna's scream, then the others, then the sound of Grandpa's cane tapping against the marble floor, one strike after another.

"Luca." His voice fell above the back of my head, lower than usual, slower than usual. "What's wrong with you? Look at me."

I tried to lift my head despite the discomfort, but I still couldn't help clutching the toilet and throwing up again.

His eyes lingered on my face for two seconds, then he turned around and gave orders to the people behind him.

"Have Falcone arrange a car. Get Luca to the hospital as soon as possible. The best hospital."