Page 17 of Mafia Kingdom

I take out my phone again and open Google, pulling up St. Lourdes’ Hospital number. I can assume that’s where my father is, because it’s the closest one.

I find the number and hit dial.

“Main desk of St. Lourdes Hospital. Do you have an extension number?” The receptionist sounds like a recording. Maybe she has to say the same thing a hundred times a day.

“No, I’m looking for my father. He was brought in a few hours ago.”

“What department is he in?”

I have no idea, and I tell her as much.

She exhales loudly. “What’s his name?”

“George Gillespie.”

She taps away. “Date of birth?”

I almost laugh. I knew his birthday was in November, but my dad was funny about his age and never celebrated it.

“Look, I don’t know, but I’m his daughter.”

“You need to come here and present some ID. I can’t just give out information.”

Frustration has me hanging up.I need to see Marco, to make him understand how important it is for me to see my father.

Determination fuels my steps as I leave the room, the door clicking softly behind me.

The hallway is dimly lit, casting long shadows that make everything feel even more surreal. As I pass by the first set of doors, I encounter three security men. Their eyes follow me, and one of them steps forward.

"Miss, is there something you need?" His tone is polite, but there's an edge to it, a reminder of the invisible bars that confine me.

"I need to see Marco," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's urgent."

The man shakes his head. "Marco's busy at the moment. Is there something we can help you with?"

I consider for a moment the words on the tip of my tongue. I could ask them to take me to the hospital, to my father. But I know the answer before I even speak. Unless Marco gives the go-ahead, I'm stuck here. "No, it's fine," I mutter and start to walk away.

They let me pass, their gazes heavy on my back. I head toward the kitchen, hoping against hope that Marco might be there. The house is eerily quiet, the grandeur of it all only adding to my sense of isolation. When I reach the kitchen, it's empty.The stainless steel appliances gleam under the soft lighting, and the scent of some earlier meal lingers in the air.

I lean against the counter, my fingers tapping nervously against the cool surface. No one seems to care that I'm wandering around, but this freedom feels hollow. It doesn't ease my anxiety; it only amplifies it. I feel like a mouse in a maze, watched but not stopped, my path determined by unseen hands.

With a deep breath, I push myself off the counter and head toward the next room, my resolve hardening with each step.

I move through the house with a purpose, my steps quick and determined. I need to find Marco and make him understand how crucial it is for me to see my father. As I approach a large sitting room, I see him. Marco is sitting alone, his gaze far off, a look of utter devastation on his face. For a moment, he seems so distant, so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't even notice my presence.

Something in me screams to turn back, to leave him alone in his misery, but my need to see my father overrides my instincts. Just as I begin to step back, his head snaps up, and our eyes meet. A shiver runs down my spine at the darkness in his gaze.

"I really want to see my father, Marco," I say, my voice small but steady. I force myself to hold my head high, refusing to show fear.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he picks up a glass of brown liquid and downs it in one go. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. Finally, he speaks, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "No."

Just like that. No explanation, no hint of empathy. He pours himself another drink, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass unnervingly loud in the stillness. I watch him, the way his fingers grip the glass tightly, the way he seems towithdraw further into himself with each sip. I know too well the unpredictability of men with alcohol, men like my father.

I pull out my phone. "I called the hospital, but they won’t tell me anything unless I go there.I'll call a cab," I say, my voice firm. "I don't expect you to drive me. I'll be at the charity event, like I agreed."

Marco's reaction is immediate and frightening. He rises, leaving the glass on the coffee table, and storms toward me. The sudden movement, the fury in his eyes, sends a wave of fear crashing over me. My breath catches in my throat as he closes the distance between us.

He grabs my phone from my hand, his grip firm and unyielding. "I said ‘no,’" he repeats, his voice low and dangerous.

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