6. The Don

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Clio hadn't moved from her father's side since he'd been picked up by the ambulance two days ago. He didn't go into the ER, surprisingly. The doctors examined him thoroughly, gave him some IV drips full of water and forced him to eat until he could keep down a decent meal, but they couldn't find anything that would suggest he needed emergency care, or needed to stay in the hospital. Just some fatigue and aches, and a bit of bowel trouble, all of which were natural for someone getting on in their years. The doctor, a polite, older fellow, concluded that Don Accardi's collapsing was merely a product of him not getting enough nutrients and overworking himself. They did suggest he stay, however, saying that maybe it'd be wise for him to spend some time in the hospital with professional supervision. He was, after all, suffering bronchitis as well, which could bring on its own set of complications.

But for once, Clio and her father agreed on what steps should be taken in his health, and declined that he stay in the hospital. The don had enemies everywhere. Staying in a public place like the hospital, for who knows how long? He'd be easy pickings, especially if his mobsters had done something to wrong one of his nurses or doctors. Hippocratic oath be damned, all it took was the wrong dosage of medication or some slip of the wrist placing his pillow over his face, and the now vulnerable Antonio Accardi would be no more.

So, instead, he was back in the manor. Laying on his bed with a drip, and Doctor Storm consistently hovering over him. His bed was massive, a carved mahogany frame with a thick, embroidered comforter, and he looked so small laying against the wall of feathery pillows pressed to the back of the frame. Miss Carman had been sleeping in one of the other massive rooms since Papà had come home, but Clio had been too sick with worry to leave her father. She had originally opted to sleep on the wide, lacy couch pushed into the corner of the massive bedroom, but Papà had insisted the bed was big enough for two. It was almost comforting in its familiarity, like when Clio was a little girl. Sneaking out of bed after she had a nightmare to curl up with her father in his big, warm bed. Only now, out of fear she'd disturb her father's IV, she slept above the covers with her own blanket.

Diego checked in often, though he'd taken to overseeing the servants and guards, with Don Accardi needing to rest and Clio not leaving his side for a moment. He often came bearing offerings, food from the kitchens, or dumb but sweet snacks picked up from the store. Clio was searching for a movie on her father's TV when Diego tentatively knocked on the door, simultaneously pushing it open.

"Hello, dear Accardis," He said as he entered, kicking the door shut behind him. A cardboard box rested in his gloved hands. "I come bearing the gift of donuts."

"I suppose I can allow your passage then," Clio said with a small laugh, leaning forward from her seat on the armchair beside Papà's bed. "I expect jelly-filled, though."

"I don't recall you transitioning from bodyguard to caterer, Mr. Del Carno," Don Accardi said with mild amusement, from his propped-up position on the bed, hands folded over his stomach. "Bit of a step down."

"I'm a Swiss army knife of servitude, Don Accardi." Diego said with a grin, plopping the white box on the small table at the foot of the bed. It was comedic, seeing someone as intimidating as Diego Del Carno with a pretty little box of baked goods. Clio scootched closer, flipping open the box and serving herself a strawberry jelly donut on a napkin, also getting a chocolate sprinkle one for her father.

"Thank you, Diego," She said amiably, sitting on the bed beside her father.

"No problem, Clee. Anything for my two favorite members of the Accardi crime family," Diego said as he helped himself to a plain glazed donut, taking a hefty bite. He didn't sit anywhere, as it would be immodest, at least in front of Don Accardi, instead standing as he ate.

"We're the only members, Diego." Clio said as she threw up an eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah," Diego said, though not like he was having a realization, more like he was in on his own personal joke.

Clio offered the donut to her father, but he shook his head and gently pushed her hand away. "No thank you, my dear," He said, his voice still rough. "I'm not hungry."

"Papà, you haven't eaten anything all morning," Clio said firmly. "I want you to keep your blood sugar up, at the very least. I refuse to compromise."

Papà stared at her for a minute, a strange, somber look on his face. Then, he quietly chuckled and took the donut, still swaddled in the papery napkin. "God, you remind me so much of your mother." He said with a sad smile.

"I wish I had enough exposure to agree," Clio replied soberly, with a smile of her own. As much as Don Antonio loved Mrs. Carman, she could never compete with the rose-tinted image of Hadiza Accardi. "I only assume I look like her."

The Don paused, and thought to himself for a moment. He clicked his tongue, hesitated, and then said; "Under the bed, dolcezza. There's a black box. Grab it, please."

Clio's brow furrowed, and tossed a confused glance at Diego, who shrugged, before she obeyed. Sweeping the loose skirt of her comfortable lounge dress to the side as she tilted, allowing her eyes to search the bottom of the bed. A black box did, indeed, rest near the head of the bed, against the wall. She fumbled but eventually caught hold of it, dragging the hefty box out into the light. It had a fine layer of dust, which scattered into the air as Clio lifted it onto the bed. It was expensive, ivory black, wooden, with hand-carved swirls covering its sides. Don Accardi lifted the box onto his lap, and slowly, as if handling a precious artifact, opened the box, the hinges lightly squeaking. Clio and Diego both leaned in, utterly intrigued, and watched as the Don delicately removed a large, leather bound book from the box.

"When I was young, I was very fond of photography," The Don said gently, dragging his weathered hand over the pristine, smooth cover of the book. Clio moved closer, until she was on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder with her father. Don Accardi lifted the cover, revealing rows of bright, laminated photographs, neatly placed within the confines of the creamy white pages. "I had an old vintage camera; they're practically extinct now. I carried it with me everywhere, and I... well, it was almost exclusively used to capture moments of your mother. You could say I was a tad smitten."

Clio gently touched the photos. The first image was of a young woman, her wild black curls scattering in the wind as she stared over a balcony, smiling down at the cityscape. Her chocolate brown skin glowed in the bright daylight, and her eyes sparkled with life even through the papery memoir.

Mamma.

"I thought... I thought you said you couldn't stand to look at pictures of her, Papà," Clio whispered, still staring at the pictures in wonder. "I thought... I thought you got rid of them."

"It is hard to look at them. This is the first time I've opened this book in... a long time." Papà said quietly. "Perhaps it was staring down the maw of my own mortality that suddenly made me a sentimentalist... but I feel that you should know this book exists. Just because I am weak when it comes to such memories does not mean you have to be."

There was another photo, with Mamma standing beside a much younger Papà, comedically draping herself onto him. It must've been before they were married, because neither of them had a ring. Mamma was dressed in a loose, sunny yellow sundress, smiling into the camera against the backdrop of the Teken Lake, the glare of the water shining into the camera. She looked so much like Clio, it was almost strange. The same round eyes, thin brows, and heart-shaped face, even the same dimpled smile. She had her arms wrapped around Papà's neck, who, it seemed, had always had the same half-smile, as if unsure whether or not he was allowed to be grinning. They both looked like they were in their early to mid-twenties, and it was more than surreal, seeing her father so young, and so recklessly happy. Back when he was the handsome heir to the Accardi throne, when he was just a name mentioned in passing, when he was dark-haired and intimidating, and happy with his girlfriend. Before he'd had to shoot his father for trying to poison him. Clio could also see more of herself in his youth; her stern posture, her crow's feet when she smiled, even his general demeanor, strange as it was, seemed to match hers.

"Damn, Mr. Accardi. You used to be built like a truck." Diego said with a low whistle, gesturing to the photo.

"And what are you saying about my current build, Mr. Del Carno?" Don Accardi asked bemusedly, giving a small chuckle.

Diego raised his hands in a sign of peace. "Nothin' at all, sir. You're an absolute ladykiller." He said placatingly. The trio laughed lightly as Clio reached out and turned the page.

More pictures of Mamma, though there were a few of Papà's old friends or of various landscapes in New Judah. One photo beheld Mamma in a gaudy flapper dress, standing at a pool table with her stick poised above the cue ball, a cigarette in her mouth, surrounded by Papà's mobster friends. She seemed to be winning. Another beheld her in the city aquarium, posing dramatically in front of the shark tank. It must've been a date, from the amount of stuffed animals and snacks practically tumbling from her purse.

Then there was one of them in the gardens behind the Accardi estate. Papà was down on one knee, offering a small, velvet box up to Mamma, a small diamond ring resting inside. Tears were pouring down Mamma's face even as her smile glowed with the happiness of a woman nearly beside herself.

"My buddy, Leo, took that one," Papà said quietly, pointing out the proposal photo. "I told him I was going to shoot my shot, and he said; 'gimme the camera, you're gonna want this one on paper.'"

Clio gave a small, choked laugh, and she realized there was emotion clogging her throat. "That does sound like Uncle Leo," She said softly. She was emotional. Part of her asked why, she had never known Mamma after all. She'd only known that Papà loved her. But the other part of her responded easily; it was because Clio had never known her that she was emotional. That she would only know her wonderful mother through moments captured in photos, or stories told by her father. That her mother had been taken from Clio before she could even have her.

The next photos threatened to bring tears flowing down Clio's face. Dozens upon dozens of wedding photos. A beautiful reception decked out in pearls and white silk. Several mobsters smoking cigars and posing for photos, their arms slung over each other's shoulders. Mamma, in the most beautiful wedding gown of glittering silk and lace that Clio had ever seen; with a full, voluminous skirt that flowed from her hips, a sweetheart neckline lined in frilly lace, and long, swinging sleeves that revealed the beautiful jewelry hanging from her wrists. Papà in his tux, standing with Mamma at the altar, her bouncy, curly mane of hair holding the veil aloft as it toppled over her back

Clio saw Papà out of the corner of his eye, and saw that his face was tight with reigned emotion. He'd long lost his ability to cry, especially over something as dominant in his life as death, but there was no denying the pain in his expression.

"How long ago was this, sir?" Diego whispered, a strange volume for the bold voice of Diego to take on. Diego had been in the Accardi family since he was a child, closer to Clio than anyone else her age, and he'd heard just as many stories of Hadiza as Clio. He was arguably more a part of this family than Mrs. Carman and her children were, and Clio sensed him getting upset, not necessarily over Mamma herself, but the fact that two people he cared about were grieving her.

"Almost forty years ago," Don Accardi said quietly, pausing to cough into the crook of his elbow. "I'd say it was the happiest day of my life."

"Mamma was so pretty," Clio murmured, touching the photos again, as if she could still reach out and touch the velvety silk of Mamma's gown, or her dense black curls, or that she could somehow wrap her arms around Mamma and experience the novelty of being embraced by her own mother.

"It's funny. Because when I remember her for myself, it's never her all done up in her makeup and dresses," Papà said contemplatively. "It's always her when she's just woken up, all disheveled and messy. Or when we were playing a game of cards and she had hair hanging in her face. Dolcezza, I want you to know that... you don't remember the grand things when you lose someone. You remember the beautiful, insignificant little moments."

Don't cry, Clio. Don't you dare cry, Clio snapped at herself. She squeezed the folds of her dress to try and distract her body from the hot tears building behind her eyes. "Why... why do you want to show me this now?" She managed quietly. "You never showed me anything of Mamma before."

The Don smiled sadly at his daughter. "Call it... presentiment, of a kind, my dear. I just felt I should show you myself." He said roughly.

Clio and Diego perked up immediately as they simultaneously detected the iconic approaching footsteps of Dr. Storm's heeled dress shoes and Mrs. Carman's high heels. The moment that there was a knock on the door, without missing a beat, Papà easily swept the book closed and tucked it into the ebony box.

"Yes, yes, come in, I haven't gone anywhere," Papà called good-humoredly, his voice as clear and casual as ever. Clio made sure her face was dry, and Diego resumed his stiff standing position as the door opened.

Dr. Storm entered first, carrying a small, sterile white kit. Julia Storm was an odd-looking, very peculiar woman. Her hair was mottled, black and white almost like the fur of a badger, due to her age. She was very lanky, with a pointy face, donning her white scrubs and latex gloves. She had a strange monocle over her left eye, hooked onto her nose and connected to her coat via chain, that had a reddish tint to it that painted her dark gray eye an orangish-amber. She had a constant contemplative curl to her lip, and she chewed the eraser capping the end of a pencil as she entered with a polite nod.

"Mr. Accardi, Miss Clio, Mr. Del Carno," She said formally, referring to each of them in turn. Dr. Storm had a very distinctive, stiff, strange voice that seemed too deep and authoritative for her skinny, gangly frame. She set the kit on the end of the bed. "Just checking in. I saw Mr. Del Carno brought up donuts. Have you eaten, Mr. Accardi?"

The chocolate donut Clio had handed to her father laid dejectedly on the bedside table. So her father cleared his throat awkwardly and said; "Ah, no. Not yet."

Carman came in immediately after, hair and dress flowing behind her, carrying a tall glass in her hands. "Darling, you haven't eaten at all? I thought the hospital said you needed nutrients," She said sweetly, immediately trotting over to Don Accardi's side opposite Clio. "You need to take care of yourself."

"Apologies, amore, I simply haven't had much of an appetite," Papà said calmly, patting Carman's hand. "Clio has been making sure I stay healthy, don't you worry."

Clio watched the pair as they were suddenly cast in a new light. Mrs. Carman was far younger than Papà. She was beautiful, undoubtedly, and decently kind as well. But the fawning love Clio had once seen between them now felt undeniably shallow. Nothing, however they felt about each other, compared what had been the marriage between Antonio Accardi and Hadiza Afio. Clio almost felt bad for Mrs. Carman, who had no idea that she was just a temporary fix, a bandaid on an incurable wound.

"How are you feeling, besides the lack of appetite, Mr. Accardi?" Dr. Storm inquired calmly as she unlatched the kit and pulled out a stethoscope. "Any nausea? Dizzy spells? Any old symptoms coming back?"

"No, no, just the usual," Don Accardi said calmly, folding his hands. "Just a bit weak is all."

"Please don't lie to me, Mr. Accardi," Dr. Storm said sternly, approaching past Mrs. Carman and pressing her stethoscope to the Don's chest. "I highly doubt anyone here is going to judge you for being in a poor state."

"Ha. I doubt it as well," Don Accardi said smoothly. "But I'm not lying."

Papà did not dislike Dr. Storm as a person, but he did dislike what she represented. If Dr. Storm was necessary, as she had been for the past few years, then that meant the Don was unhealthy. Endangered even. So, he was more than a bit standoffish toward her during their check-ups.

But the check-up proceeded anyway. At some point, Papà was given the glass that Carman had brought in. It had to be alcoholic, even this early in the day, in a thick, frosty glass that clinked with ice every time Papà took a sip. But Dr. Storm didn't call it out, surprisingly, just annoyedly grit her teeth and went down the list of tests. Reflexes, eyes, throat, ears, lungs; each time marking something down on a tiny notepad she kept in the breast pocket of her scrub.

"Well, your condition has not improved, but it appears you have not gotten worse," Dr. Storm said, straightening her monocle as she glanced over her completed set of notes jotted down on her notepad. "Which can be seen as good news."

"No improvement at all? But he's been getting nothing but nutrients and rest," Clio said both perplexedly and incredulously. "Surely some things have to have improved, at least a little bit."

"I'm afraid not, Miss Clio," Dr. Storm said, her blank tone never changing even as she cast an empathetic look at Clio. "But these things do take time. Health problems don't come and go like that-" She snapped. "-I give it maybe a week or so more, and Mr. Accardi will steady out."

"Best damn news I've had all day," Don Accardi said gruffly, coughing quickly. "The sooner you all let me out of this godforsaken bed, the better."

"We should all go out to do something fun, when you're better," Mrs. Carman said with a sweet smile, squeezing Papà's shoulder. "As a family. We should all... go see a movie. Or maybe stop by the New Judah arts museum. It'd be good after you've been all cooped up."

"I'll second that," Dr. Storm said crisply, tucking her pencil away behind her ear. "Fresh air would be good once you're stable. As long as you're not doing anything too draining."

"It would be fun. And of course, I'll be there to monitor Papà," Clio said with a smile. A week and Papà would be stabilized. That was wonderful news. Perhaps it would be fun to spend time with Mrs. Carman and her children. It would be decent of Clio to at least try to get along with them.

After Papà had eaten, everyone began to slowly leave. First Dr. Storm, then Carman, and Diego left last. Clio and the Don only talked a little bit before her father nodded off to sleep. He'd been sleeping a lot more, which was good, so Clio muted the TV and turned on subtitles for herself as she turned on a random movie. She curled up on the couch to watch, but the combination of a full belly and a warm, soft blanket apparently took its toll on her, because she, too, drifted into a half-sleep.

But she snapped out of it once the credits of the movie began to roll. A full two and a half hours gone. She yawned and stood to stretch. Maybe she needed to start going to bed earlier, though she supposed a nap had never

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