The Untouchables(89)

“I told you not to enter here, Melody,” he hissed at me, not bothering to look up from what he was doing. He was as pale as ever. His left hand would shake every few moments, but he just went on cutting away. The dark curls that once adorned his head drifted to the ground.

“I wanted to make sure you—”

“Leave,” he snapped. “Leave an old man to die.”

I couldn’t move; I just kept watching his hair fall.

“Melody, Leave!” he barked at me.

“No!” I snapped back, shutting the door behind me. “Have you been getting your chemotherapy?”

Slamming the razor down on the dresser, he stood and glared down at me. “You know stubbornness is not attractive. You, Melody Nicci Giovanni, are nothing but a child, an ungrateful one at that. You do not question me, and you do not raise your voice to me! I run this household! I may be dying, but I am still ORLANDO GIOVANNI! Neither you nor anyone else will treat me any differently. Have I made myself clear?”

“You are not dying! You are not as sick as you think! Get the chemotherapy, Orlando! I refuse to put you in a grave. Ever since I was a child you have dictated every part of my life. I let you do it out of loyalty and love for you; I have to do it because you are all I have! So no, you don’t get to die. You don’t get to leave me with this shit and just give up, Oh Great Orlando Giovanni!”

The moment I finished, his right hand grabbed my neck and pulled me closer. “Your loyalty should be to yourself. Your love should be only for yourself! No one will ever protect you but yourself. I have spent years trying to drill that into your pretty little head, but you refuse to get it. You are alone. You never had me. It’s time you grow up and find your own damn path instead of clinging onto mine!”

The shaving cream still on his half-shaven head fell onto my hand as I tried to pull away. He let me go, dropping me like a wet rag. I slid onto the cool floor. Holding my neck, I tried to breathe. I tried to control myself, but I was done.

“Grow up, Orlando? GROW UP?” I screamed, picking myself up from the ground. “I’ve been grown up since I was six! It’s a miracle I’m not a serial killer with the shit I’ve been through and the things I’ve seen! You may have thrown money, and trainers, and tutors my way, but you did not raise me, and you sure as hell were never there for me to cling onto. But hey, if you want to die, go ahead, knock yourself out you big coward! In the meantime, I will run this…this fucking empire all by my fucking self and I won’t lower myself to steal the top spot, I’ll earn it.”

“You think you can sit in my chair?” He laughed, staggering a little as I reached for the door handle. “I’ve seen you try, and it’s too big for you. You’ve tried, sweetheart. But don’t worry, I’ve set away a small fortune along with a few contacts that the Callahans will be interested in. That should be enough for them to still want to marry you. I wouldn’t want my daughter to end up on the streets.”

I watched him stumble over to his new bottles, he grabbed one and drank deeply. He was already drunk. He gulped it all down before reaching for the next one.

“To cancer, the bitch that never dies!” he toasted to himself before drinking again. Sadly, that bottle only lasted a few seconds before he threw it against the wall. It shattered on impact, staining the wallpaper a beautiful blood red.

As though someone had taken out his batteries, he fell onto the chair in front of the mirror. He tried to pick up the razor, but between his shaking hand and his undoubtedly blurry vision, he couldn’t.

Sighing, I found myself walking over and taking the blade from him. “I’ll do it, you look like you lost a fight with a pair of scissors,” was all I could say, as I took the old-school blade to his hair.

Snickering, he nodded but I held onto his neck. “I’m on the poison,” he said. “I stopped for a while but I started again this morning. I shouldn’t have stopped, but it’s just as painful as the last time.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look into the mirror to see his face. I knew it hurt him. I’d talked to all of his doctors and pain was just a side effect; they could do nothing but give him more meds. But the meds made him angry, and sometimes violent. It was one of the reasons he tried to lock himself away.

“How much was this small fortune anyway?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Small fortune?”

“The one you have locked away from the Irish pig and his rat family.”

“Mel…”

“Don’t ‘Mel’ me with a razor at your skull, Orlando. I have another use for it and it’s not going to be wasted on those people.”