Page 2 of Steal My Heart

“Eleven years. Twelve years. Thirteen years,” I helpfully add.

“Glad to see that Ivy League education taught you how to count.” Fabien strolls across the room and kisses Mama. Now behind her, he flicks his hand under his chin and mouths to me,Sei uno sfigato,before walking out.

Unclenching my fists, I turn to Mama. “Why did you ask me to come?”

“Follow me.”

“What’s with the cloak and daggers? Just tell me.”

She doesn’t answer, and I sigh, following her down the hallway and to my father’s office.

“Uh-huh,” I say preemptively. “I’m not dropping out of school to cover for my idiot brother?—”

“Angelo,” Mama chastises. She knocks softly on the door, but to my surprise, a woman in scrubs appears and ushers us inside. “He refused pain medication,” the nurse reports to Mama.

“He wants to be lucid to speak to his son,” Mama tells her. “That will be all for now.”

The nurse nods, walking out and closing the door behind her.

My jaw hangs from its hinges, and I have to force my mouth shut. My father, King Vitto, isn’t seated on his throne behind his desk; instead, he’s lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors. His face gaunt, his breathing labored, it’s clear he’s knocking on death’s door.

“Pancreatic cancer. By the time he was diagnosed, it had already progressed to Stage 4. It’s metastasized to his lungs…” She trails off, fighting back the tears. “He doesn’t have much time.”

Walking to my father’s bedside, she takes his frail hand into hers. “Vitto, my love, Angelo is here to see you.”

My feet don’t want to move, but I find myself now standing beside my father.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Mama says, kissing my father’s forehead before taking her leave.

“Papà,” I say, running my hand through my hair for lack of anything else to do. “I had no idea…”

“I know you didn’t,” he says, his voice paper thin. “A dying man needs a favor.”

“My brother’s fuckup isn’t my problem,” I say firmly.

He tents his bony fingers together. “Ahh, but it will soon be your problem.”

I cock my head in confusion. “I’m not following.”

“I’m naming you my successor.”

“Your successor,” I repeat dumbly.

“You’ll be boss.” He spells it out.

My eyes go wide at this lunacy. “Papà, I’m not even a made man.”

“We’ll take care of that shortly.”

“The hell we will.” I cross my arms. “You know I don’t want this life.”

A ghost of a smile reaches his dry lips. “And I don’t want to meet my maker, but some things are beyond our control.”

“You, the Iron Fist, are admitting you’renotin control?” I raise an eyebrow.

He silently grabs a manila folder on the bedside table and tosses it to me.

Opening the file, I find a letter from the dean.