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16
Rome, 2000
Have you ever prayed? Have you really prayed, went on your knees, and begged God to listen to you? I did it every night for the past ten days. I begged God to kill me already.
The pain in my chest was growing with every passing minute, but that was the easy part. The pain in my heart, on the other hand? The jolts of sheer agony that pulsated through my heart every time I thought about my daughter and the man I loved? That was the real monster that was torturing me. So I prayed to God to just let the disease take me. I didn’t know what was coming after death and if hell was my punishment for putting the people I loved through so much misery, it couldn’t have been worse than this. God didn’t listen. I stopped taking my meds the moment Romina was safe and sound on a plane going to New York, towards a future that I couldn’t give her, hoping I’d be in the ground soon, but my lungs were collapsing at an alarmingly slow speed.
It had been exactly fourteen months and nine days since I’d gotten my diagnosis. Part of what I told Roman was true: I got pneumonia. It was so bad, I had to be admitted to the hospital in Genova and they kept me for a week. During that time, the pneumologist ran a million tests on me because the pain in my chest only increased with time. Turns out I had the lungs of a fifty-year-old man who smoked a pack a day – the doctor called it a pulmonary obstruction. It was a chronic disease and it was another lovely gift I got from my foster father –alongside with the crippling intimacy issues I had to wrestle before knowing Roman – after the years I’d spent in his asbestos-infested house. The doctor explained it to me back there in big words, but I couldn’t remember them. It was simple though. My lungs were collapsing, and I was dying. I’d known it for over a year. The meds had kept the symptoms and the pain at bay, but the deterioration of my lung tissue was accelerating. I was on the transplant list, but I knew from the get-go that it was damn hard to find a match because of some protein in my cells that was very specific.
I’d spent the past year knowing I was going to die and while some people came to be at peace with it, I couldn’t. I had a daughter – a perfect little angel – and it was just us. I worked harder, saved more money to give her some savings; I signed my life insurance to her, but it wasn’t enough, because I didn’t have a person to trust. And then Roman showed up. That was one of the times that God listened because I’d thought about going to him. I was scared, terrified even, but Remy needed someone to look after her. I would have never let my baby get into the foster system and have the same life as I did. He took her and I knew that she’d be loved and taken care of.
The only thing I didn’t understand was why now, when I could finally go in peace, God refused to take me. Maybe I was dead, and this was indeed my hell. The suffering was enough to match the pits of hell. All I wanted was them – Remy and Roman. I wanted to hold my daughter one more time and have Roman here to hold my hand. I was scared, in pain, and my heart was broken.
The sleeping pills helped. Every time I gulped one, I dreamed about Romina. We were in Central Park, all three of us. Roman and I were on the bench; he was holding my hand, and Romina was running around. In every dream she was so happy. I was so grateful that I could see her happy, but just like in my doomed reality, I wanted to hug her and I couldn’t. All there was left was to rot away in the cramped hotel room that I got in Rome and wait for the end to swallow me.
Why Rome? Because I couldn’t stay in Portofino when I knew Roman would be back to storm the place, and I didn’t have the physical capacity to travel further. I’d taken a bus here; I was planning to leave the country, but when I got to Rome, I could barely walk because of the pain in my chest. I thought that was it, but no. I’d been here for ten days and I was still living and breathing.
Feeling another coughing attack coming, I got off the bed and dragged my feet to the bathroom, because I knew it would end either with me throwing up or spitting blood everywhere. Every time I coughed, it felt like razors were dragged up and down my throat. This time was so bad I had to grab the sink to offer me some support because I almost dropped to my knees. After a few minutes, the sink was filled with blood, and I was lying flat on the bathroom floor. The coolness of the tiles was very welcome because I was sweating, probably running a fever.
Through all the haze I thought I heard something that sounded like a knock. Probably just the cleaning lady again, trying to change the sheets, but I couldn’t let her in now.
“Go away!” I wanted to shout, but it was more of a screeching noise.
They knocked again and I ignored it, only then something happened. Someone broke the door down. The sound of breaking wood made it through to me before I could turn my head and see the door breaking in half, letting the massive dark shape inside the room. Fear gripped me by the throat and I pushed myself up on my elbows, gluing my body to the bathroom cabinet.
The man that walked in? He might be the Grim Reaper and the nightmare was finally over. He looked like Death. The man was tall, maybe six-three, six-four, covered with muscles and tattoos that were going up his neck and both arms. I looked at his face and I knew – I just knew – that he was no stranger to death.
“Who are you?” I croaked, but maybe the better question was ‘what are you.’
“Get up. We need to go.” He said, like I should have been expecting him.
Shaken by shivers of fear and panic, I hugged my knees to my chest, desperately trying to widen the distance between us by a few inches. Maybe if I closed my eyes, I’d finally die and all of this would go away. I tried, but nothing happened, A sweet, feminine voice made me open them again.
“Hello!”
She looked like an angel, the total opposite of the man standing right next to her. She was petite, with blonde hair and big, blue eyes, that had an irrefutable kindness dancing in them. She also looked sophisticated, wearing a tight skirt and a silk blouse that matched her high-heeled sandals. What was happening.
“Catherinelle,” the man growled, “I told you to wait in the damn car.”
“I thought you might need me.”
“I. Don’t.”
“I think you do. Look,” she exclaimed, pointing my way, “You’ve terrified her.”
“Roman said to do whatever it takes to bring her back.”
Roman. The name resounded through me. He’d sent them. Oh, no, he’d found me. Again. And this time I wasn’t sure he wasn’t set on killing me.
“Roman didn’t tell you to break down the damn door.”
“I’ll pay for that.”
“Good. Go do that while I take care of this.” She pointed to me again. “Let’s retire The Monster for the day, baby.”
“Fine,” he agreed, but he sounded pissed.
“I love you.”
