Sister Margaret is about to turn me down. Old and set in her ways, everything about her demands obedience. I tilt my head and soften my gaze into what my actresses have dubbed the mating call.
It’s ingrained in my DNA. Generations in the U.S. can’t rip Italian seduction out of a guy. Not that I’m complaining; besides getting you a shitload of pussy, you get your will in other ways without the disruption of gunfire.
I crook my mouth, plumping the middle in an inviting smirk while I wait. Her age aside, I’d have no qualms ravaging the good sister if need be. I guess I’d be introducing her to a whole new pagan-type heaven if I did.
“Please understand, Mr. Nascimbeni. You can’t be here. You’re not family. We accept donations over the internet, and with that, the hospital purchases what we need for the babies. I think you’re aware of this by now.”
“Oh, come on, gorgeous. Don’t be so heartless.” I breathe the words out quietly. “You know I donate my own weight in gold to the NICU. Shouldn’t you be giving me a break?”
It’s part of our game for me to strike her carnal cords and for Sister Margaret to fight my pull. Tonight, her response is evidenced by the slow dip of her eyelids and the fine hairs hackling her arm.
I’m here a few times a week, have been for years, but Sister Margaret’s end of the game never changes. Can’t say I don’t enjoy it; I live for the hunt, no matter how small. Each conquest means satisfaction, another bead on the rosary of my reign.
“Per favore?” I say with a playful pout.
She huffs, sends a covert glance around her, and it’s hard to remain serious: as if her colleagues ever wonder who I am when she’s already buzzed me in.
A small groan escapes her as she commits the understated nun version of an eye-roll. “God give me strength. This man...” She shows God her palms before swatting me forward.
“Grazie, Sister.”
“Oh, don’t you grazie me. It’s not because you’re Venetian that I’m letting you in. And I’m only doing it this once. D’accordo?” She stops, turning fully to pierce me with her stare.
“D’accordo.” I’ll miss it the day she stops fighting me.
“A new little girl arrived today. She’s in the room next to Kristen.”
“What’s her name?”
“Tesoro. Her parents are from Guatemala, and she’s their firstborn. She’s sixteen weeks premature and has a hard journey ahead of her.”
“Tesoro. Treasure,” I translate and swallow.
“Yes.” Sister Margaret steeples her fingers in a quick prayer, mouth moving quietly before she continues. “We’ll know more in a few days.”
I nod to the man sitting by Tesoro’s crib in case he can see me. As always, my chest tightens at the sight of a father in here. He’s deep inside his mind, fear burning at the back of his eyes. Not for the first time, I wonder what I’d do in his place.
“Got some booties made,” I gruff out, handing a few bags to Sister Margaret.
“Are all of them for Kristen?”
“Nah, she’ll have to share with Daniel and the gang.” I bite into my lip.
“What if you’ve brought too few booties? What little darlings aren’t getting any?” Sister Margaret does have a sense of humor.
I wink. “You don’t think I know how many beds you have? There should be plenty. My chicks have been knitting.”
She scoffs, surely at the my-chicks part. From her expression, she’s not disbelieving of me having more than one woman. “Well, Kristen is alone right now if you want to visit with her.”
“I’d like that. Let me know if someone comes?”
Sister Margaret cuts me a glare. “I wouldn’t dream of allowing you in there with her family in the building.”
She opens the door and watches me walk in. Kristen’s birdlike body, soft pink and draped in a miniature diaper, breathes fast as moth wings under her electrodes. She’s a miracle I’m sure her family thanks the Lord for every hour. I know I would.
“Don’t touch her.”
“Of course not.”
Hands in my lap, I revel in her fragility. I lift my hand to the glass separating us and splay over the area covering the most perfect little miniature fingers.
The window giving to the corridor brightens with Sister Margaret’s departure. I get up. Walk to the sink. Eyes on the wall clock, I scrub my hands for one hundred and twenty seconds. I air-dry them before lathering them with disinfectant foam. Then, I air-dry again.
Pulling my chair up until my knees touch the incubator, I insert my hand and use my thumb, the size of the newborn’s fist, to stroke along her doll arm. Kristen’s skin is so soft I can’t feel it with my jaded, weathered flesh.
I scan the surveillance window again before I swallow her hand with mine. I lower my head so my mouth hovers above the dome of her crib. Hoarse, I hum out a lullaby she must know by now.
Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma
Fa la ninna bel bambin,
Fa la nanna bambin bel,
Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma.
Kristen’s body relaxes. In the absence of her family, she and I have done this for weeks. Maybe she’s come to expect it.