The Mafia King’s Doll

Skylar

The stitches were removed a few days ago, and Dr. Bentall says my body is adjusting to the transplant at a satisfactory rate.

Honestly, I feel as good as new, and with every passing day, I’m becoming stronger. I’m even gaining weight again.

While I fill little pockets of dough with shredded beef so I can make steamed dumplings, Louisa places a cup of tea on the counter.

“You’re spending too much time in the kitchen,” she chastises me. “You promised to take it slow.”

“If I take it any slower, I’ll be in bed twenty-four-seven,” I mumble. I shoot her a grin. “It feels like I’ve been released from a prison sentence. Let me enjoy life.”

“I just don’t want anything going wrong.”

Giving her a reassuring smile, I say, “Nothing will go wrong. I feel healthy, and as soon as I get tired, I’ll take a nap.”

She lets out a sigh before walking out of the kitchen, and I take a quick sip of the tea then continue making another dumpling.

Suddenly, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle with a weird sensation as if I’m being watched. Even though I know I’m alone in the kitchen, I still glance around me.

I’ve been getting the feeling more and more.

It’s your imagination. But…

My hands still as I think about the dream I had last week. I didn’t see the man, but I could feel him in my bedroom, watching me. He said something I can’t remember.NôvelDrama.Org © content.

It feels like it was the same man I dreamed about the day I got the transplant.

I mentioned the dreams to Dr. Bentall, who said some patients might have disturbing dreams and poor sleep. It isn’t unusual.

Taking a deep breath, I continue to prepare the dumplings, and while they’re steaming, I make sesame noodles.

I find Asian cuisine fascinating and would love to specialize in it. With a bit of luck, I’ll become a head chef at a Michelin Star restaurant where I can create my own signature Asian-inspired dishes.

I let out a frustrated sigh, wishing I could return to work already. I want to get my life back to how things were before the car accident.

My thoughts turn to Mom, and there’s a pang of sadness in my chest.

I miss her.

I hardly had time to mourn her death when I was forced to face my own impending demise. Three years have passed, and I’ve only been to her grave twice.

I should get some flowers and visit her grave.

Dad comes into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. “When are we eating?”

“In ten minutes.” I glance at him, then say, “I’d like to visit Mom’s grave tomorrow. Can you squeeze it into your busy schedule?”

“What time?”

“Whenever suits you.”

Dad thinks for a moment, then suggests, “How about four pm?” “Works for me.”

When he leaves the kitchen, I check the dumplings before making the noodles, which don’t take long to cook.

When the food is ready, I prepare three plates. Placing two plates with chopsticks and soy sauce on a tray, I carry it to Dad’s office so I can eat with him.

Passing Louisa, where she’s wiping down the handrail by the stairs, I say, “Your food is in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

Walking into Dad’s office, I set the tray down on the coffee table, and take a seat on the couch.

“Come eat, Daddy.”

He gets up from behind his desk and sits down beside me. Picking up his chopsticks, he murmurs, “It looks delicious, sweetheart.”

I’ve put off discussing my plans with my father, and after swallowing a bite of a dumpling, I say, “I want to start looking at apartments.”

Dad’s eyes snap to my face. “So soon?”

“I’ll probably look around for a month or so before finding a place.” “Which areas?”

“Manhattan. I want to be close to the restaurant where I hope to get a position.”

“Let’s see where you end up working, then I’ll help you buy an apartment.”

The corner of my mouth lifts into a smile. “You don’t have to do that.

My savings account is pretty healthy.”

“I know, but let me do this for you. Consider it a gift for fighting so hard.”

I nudge my shoulder against Dad’s. “You spoil me rotten.” “Of course. You’re my daughter.”

I feel a little emotional as we continue to eat, and only when we’re done do I say, “I wouldn’t have survived without you, Daddy. Thank you for practically dragging me through the past three years.”

He pats my knee before getting up and walking to his desk. With his back to me, he clears his throat before murmuring, “There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for you.”

I know. I’m the luckiest person alive to have him as my father.

Climbing out of the Mercedes, my eyes touch on the bouquet of lilies before I glance over the cemetery.

While I wait for Dad to walk around the car, a Bentley with blacked-out windows drives slowly past us.

Smiling at Dad, I hook my arm through his, and as we walk toward Mom’s grave, I look at the neatly trimmed grass and well-maintained graves. There are flower beds and old trees, the nature blending with the headstones.

“It’s actually pretty and peaceful here.”

“I wouldn’t associate the word pretty with a cemetery,” Dad replies.

I glance to my right and see a man crouching in front of a headstone, his head slightly bowed. Before I can look away, he glances in my direction.

With the distance between us, I can’t get a good look at his face, and quickly look away so he doesn’t think I’m staring at him.

When we reach Mom’s grave, I take the dead flowers from the holder attached to the headstone and put the fresh bouquet in it.

“We brought you lilies, Mom,” I say as I read the words engraved on the granite.

“Hi, Sadie,” Dad whispers while he wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I brought Skylar so you could see how good she’s doing.” His voice tenses with sorrow as he adds, “But she’s just as stubborn as you and wants to do too much too soon.”

I let out a chuckle. “No, Dad’s being overprotective like always.”

Silence falls around us as we stand by Mom’s grave, and a moment later, I feel the eerie prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

Glancing to my right, I see the man still standing by the grave he came to visit, but his head’s turned toward us.

He’s just looking in our direction, but still, my body tenses and I feel a sense of danger.

“Let’s go home, Daddy,” I say, already turning away from Mom’s grave.

As we walk back to the car, Dad asks, “Is there anywhere else you want to stop, or are we heading home?”

“Home. I want to get started with dinner.”

We climb into the Mercedes, and I pull on the safety belt. When Dad steers us toward the gates of the cemetery, I say, “Since the transplant, I keep getting this weird sensation that I’m being watched.”

Dad’s eyes flick to my face. “But you’ve hardly left the house.”

“I know. It’s weird. Whether I’m cooking or watching TV, the feeling just pops up at the most random times.”

“You’re not one to be paranoid, sweetheart. Maybe we should make an appointment with a therapist. You’ve been through a lot the past three years, and talking about it could be good for you.”

I let out a chuckle. “No, thanks. I’m not spilling my guts to some stranger. Talking to you is all the therapy I need.”

“Maybe you should invite Oakley and Hallie over. You haven’t seen them in a while,” Dad mentions.

There’s a reason I haven’t seen them. They stopped coming to the hospital when things got too hard for them to handle.

Not ready to think about how my friends abandoned me in my darkest hour, I mutter, “I don’t think so.”

Dad’s eyes flick to me again. “Did something happen between you and them?”

I shake my head and glance out of the window. “Our lives just went in different directions. It happens.”

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It happens.” Leaning forward, I turn on the radio and adjust the volume so the music isn’t too loud.

Just as Dad pulls away from a traffic light, I relax against the seat again and glance out the window.

There’s a black car to our right, and with the windows rolled down, I get a glimpse of the man in the back seat.

Recognition slams hard into my gut, but a second later, the car turns up a side street, and I can’t see the man anymore.

I’m dead sure that’s the man I dreamed about the night after I got the transplant.

I’d recognize those hazel eyes anywhere.

As the car drives away, I realize it’s a Bentley.

Is it the same one I saw at the cemetery?

Not even a minute later, I’m second-guessing myself.

Maybe it was just déjà vu?