Two, in One Heart: Until Death Do We Part

by Peter W. Carbone

Overview

Anthony Cuero, M.D., once a strong, optimistic Christian, struggles with the clash within himself. He is a young physician from the University of Miami who fell hopelessly in love with, and eventually married, Valentina Calamia, M.D. Their love and passion for each other strengthens with the passing of each day and it is believed to be attributed to a five-hundred-year-old family secret.

Valentina’s parents, grandparents and ancestors successfully protected the family secret within their family home, which sits on the side of Mount Etna, Sicily’s most powerful and mystical domain. It is Anthony’s and Valentina’s turn to protect it. But, their short time together was not always blissful. Her ancestor, from over five hundred years past, who bequeathed Valentina’s lineage with this extraordinary gift of love and passion, was unable to evade the envy of evil. It is an evil that manipulates Anthony away from his God of Peace and toward a god of destruction as he seeks revenge for the murder of Valentina.

Anthony is ultimately plagued with one final question: In his quest to be his family’s greatest ally, did he become their fiercest foe?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781456729455
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	02/18/2011
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
File size:	970 KB

Read an Excerpt

Two, in One Heart

(Until Death Do We Part)

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By Peter W. Carbone

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Peter W. Carbone
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-2947-9

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Chapter One

Present Day Just Past Midnight October 14th 2011

I abruptly awake in my bedroom. I cannot catch my breath; I can feel the warm beads of sweat dripping from my head. My heart rate is in pursuit of its normal rhythm but it can find no reprieve; in its quest, its rate quickens.

"My God, why can't I stop shaking? It was only another nightmare!" Groggy and in a state of perplexity, I must have murmured aloud because I suddenly become horrified when I hear a voice emanate from the darkness.

"A nightmare? You fool, welcome to your new reality!"

I instinctively yank my body away from the voice only to feel a sharp pain around my throat. I begin to choke and, without pause, I attempt to reach for the pain. I cannot reach it; both my arms and legs are tightly bound.

"Just where do you think you are going?"

The voice gradually sounds hauntingly familiar. I shriek, "Lucile, what have you done?"

She reaches over me and turns on the light. I can see that my presumption was an unfortunate miscalculation. The moisture I feel is not sweat but blood, which continues to slowly drip from my head onto a blood stained pillow. It is this moment that my "new reality" rushes toward me at a velocity that would spawn great fear to even the likes of Ares, the Greek god of war.

Within these past three years, my happiness has been eroded like a glacier that is under a vicious attack by the sweltering heat of the summer sun and the constant pounding of the salty, ocean waves. I now realize that I was not at all dreaming and that Lucile had orchestrated this new reality of mine. I look to her for compassion but her brow translates her cold indifference. In fact, her face lacks lines of expression while she demonstrates not a dram of sympathy. I can feel her imprecate my home. I reluctantly exhale because I fear the pain I will endure when I have to inevitably inhale.

I begin to panic as I look toward my abductor and force myself to screech, "Help, I can't breathe! I can't breathe! I feel as if my heart is going to explode." I attempt to scream but the rope suppresses each painful word. The words come out as a low, hoarse whisper, "Please help me!" Each word is dripping with bloody torment.

With neither a flicker of compassion in her eyes nor her unemotional voice, she coldly responds, "Help me with my heart, and I will help you with yours."

She appears to be a woman of stolid temperament who doesn't allow a heartfelt plea for kindness to affect her judgments. Her facial gestures express an odd disinterest to my reach for compassion. I am a mere object whose relevance is narrowly defined by her self-interest; as if the purpose of my existence was meant to equal her need — no more and no less. She mechanically turns away, walks out of my bedroom and nonchalantly closes the door.

I could only think of my fragile little Gabriella and how helpless I am to her. Again, I weep into my bucket of blue tears. As for the pain, it encircles me. It ruthlessly jabs various parts of my body with fire-tipped spears. I hear my cracked voice fade in the darkness, "First Thomas, then my wife, now my little girl."

Chapter Two

Early next morning 7:00 A.M.

I was awoken by a deep sense of despair. Once I became lucid, I attempted to assess the length of time that had elapsed since the kidnapping of Gabriella. It appears to be morning. I hear the cackling of the birds as they join in song the sibilant whispers of the cool, morning breeze strolling sluggishly through the palm trees that surround my Miami home. In the past, I would wake up, get dressed and dart out the door with undue eagerness. At the moment, I listen intently as I anticipate the calm, early morning breeze to strengthen into blustery winds of anguish that will again blow through my soul. It is only now that I realize the solace that has escaped me all these years. It is ironic that it would take a tragedy such as this, to slow me down long enough to learn of the beauty and comfort of those birds.

"Valentina! Valentina!" I moan as I bring to mind a mixture of fond memories with violent acts of transgressions. It is those bird sounds that evoke the sweet images of our first, loving interaction that guided us to our tragic, ill-fate. These are the memories that warm my heart but anguish my soul.

Indeed, many a man has sought counsel from his impassioned heart and, as a result, subjects his soul to self-revelations. I should like to confess my self-revelations and the days that led to my acts of malevolence. One's desire to act maliciously on another human being seldom stains one's soul as it did mine. Although every one of us accepts he is a sinner, my hope is that my soul is not foreordained to damnation as a result of my ruthless acts. My hope is that my unclean soul will become, once again, clean. With that said, some may consider my acts justifiable, a mere victim of circumstance. Others may consider my acts reprehensible, a willing participant of undue force in an unwelcome world of evil. And, of course there will be some who simply don't give a damn. Still, I confess.

It was February fourth, two thousand and three, over eight years ago at the University of Miami in South Florida. It is here that I attended medical school. After four years of medical school, I completed the three year internal medicine residency program. And, although Valentina would like to deny it, she and I first communicated on the seventh level of the UM/Jackson Memorial Hospital parking garage during my final year of the residency program. Later, we did our cardiovascular fellowship at UM. It was a program of sound pedagogy principles but a program that would soon be dwarfed by the lessons I would learn from Valentina within the ensuing years.

It was a beautiful, sunny Miami morning. I was early so I purposefully drove by all of the vacant parking spots of the first six levels and settled on the top level of the garage. I discovered this "sanctuary" upon the first day I visited the campus, when I searched and searched for a vacant spot but with no success. That first search brought with it, much frustration. All of the spots in the lower level of the parking garage were already occupied. I continued my quest one level at a time but there was not one empty spot to be had. Ultimately, I was forced to park on the seventh level, which, incidentally, has no roof. It is this vantage point that enables one to see much of Miami's beautiful buildings, as well as the hospitals, medical towers and palm trees comprising the Miami medical campus.

My first visit to the campus, to which I am referring, I parked my car, slammed my door out of frustration, took a deep breath and looked up. That was the first time I noticed the jets from the Miami airport soaring overhead. It was a sight that captivated my imagination. I am amazed that man has the ability to create a large vehicle that can gracefully climb into the heavens. Every time I see jets soar as they do, I find that I am enchanted by man's imagination, which has the keen ability to unmask boundless possibilities. I find myself wondering: What's next?

It was a matter of moments when I realized that this would eventually be my safe haven where I can peacefully enjoy my coffee, scan the UM medical campus below while I intermittently gaze in wonderment at the jets that soar above. Day after day, year after year, this would continue to be my morning refuge. This particular morning was another one of those mornings that I felt compelled to drive to the top level and enjoy my early morning reprieve. It was one of those mornings that I found myself wondering: What's next?

As I was enjoying the last sip of my morning cup of java, I witnessed the fourth jet take to the air and get absorbed by the cover of white, puffy clouds. It was time to get to work. I gathered my bags, put on my white medical coat, slung my stethoscope around my neck and walked toward the door that leads to the stairs. I ate a doughnut for breakfast that morning. I had the need to "punish" myself by taking the stairs down, all seven flights. It seems silly, however, at the time, it was reasonable. For most of my life, I made many a decision based on my health, via, diet and exercise. It is one reason that I became fascinated with cardiology.

I walked by the elevator and was ready to reach for the door handle that leads to the seventh level stairwell, when I noticed this extraordinarily beautiful woman who was awaiting the elevator door to open. It was the elevator that I hastily ignored. Suddenly, I was presented with the morning's first dilemma. How am I going to nonchalantly pivot away from the door that leads to the stairs and walk back toward the elevator? After, what I now consider, less than careful deliberation, I noticed that she was holding a bulky medical book entitled, Dorland's Illustrated Medical Dictionary. It was obvious to me that I couldn't take the stairs because I had to be a gentleman and assist this fine lassie.

"Excuse me," I turned in her direction and reached for her book with my right hand and continued, "I would be happy to help you with your book, it looks heavy." I used the fingers of my left hand to comb my long, wavy, black hair out of my face. I thought this maneuver might serve to add to my sex appeal; admittedly, it was a result of the uneasy situation in which I placed myself.

Undeniably, my effort was determined but the result was humiliating. My misguided attempt to be coy failed miserably. She apparently characterized my approach as clumsy. She peered into my eyes as if my offer was difficult to discern, raised her right perfectly plucked dark eyebrow while swooshing back her wavy, long, beautiful, dark brown hair away from her face and said with a sexy, Latin intonation, "No thanks 'Romeo,' as helpless as I look, I intend to take the stairs."

She boldly walked past me, reached for the door handle, which moments ago was within my grasp, forced it opened and walked toward the staircase; her gestures were steadfast. She swung the cantankerous, heavy, metal door open to the point that the dull, silver, dented doorknob slammed against the cement wall. It created a thunderous popping noise that resonated against the other walls. As the old, heavy, rusty door began its retreat, I yelled down, "Okay 'Juliet,' but you may want to consider putting a limit to your strength training exercises." I made a megaphone with my hands and placed them around my lips and continued a bit louder, "In its place, ballet class, or better yet, etiquette class may be a consideration!"

On cue, as I was awaiting her rebuttal, the door slammed shut! In place of her voice, I heard her two-inch heels angrily tapping each concrete step in a most timely manner; it sounded like a choreographed tap dance. Her tapping, however, had a unique cadence. I heard every step and pivot. It was obvious that she was traveling farther from me one level at a time because her dance routine was slowly fading into silence as she descended toward the ground level.

Hamstrung, I foolishly stood, anticipating the elevator door to open while I listened to her tap dance her way down the seven flights of stairs, which I wished I had taken as originally planned. It was at that moment that I heard the cackling of a bird. I never forgot it because it was timed with Valentina's angry, clicking steps as she arduously worked her way down. It was as if the bird was intentionally singing to her every stride. Humorously, the bird only cackled when there was a pause in the tapping sound; as if the bird wanted to fill in the moment of calmness, and then paused when Valentina's tapping continued. It was a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodger's routine. Mr. Astaire's steps were the bird's cackle, cackle and Ms. Rodger's steps were Valentina's aggressive heels that met the cement steps.

Like many a good story, with time, this one was embellished. It became our own little joke that got us over more than a few disagreements; you know, the way couples disagree over silly, trivial matters and later make up. Click, click! Cackle, cackle!

I deeply recall the emotions that I experienced during our first awkward interaction. In truth, I initially felt foolish when she called me "Romeo." Her innuendo clearly put my motive into perspective as I attended to my emotional wounds; but then I felt powerfully moved. She was sexy. It was her eyes; they were sensuous. They had mesmerizing flecks of gold deep within them.

Once my eyes were latched onto hers, they wouldn't let go. Her eyes were like magnets and mine steel. Yet, I felt compelled to pull them away because I was looking into her eyes with great intent. I didn't want her to notice my veneration for her so I attempted to disengage my eyes from hers. As soon as my eyes successfully disengaged, however, they felt a profound urge to reengage. Why the affinity for her eyes? She had a fire deep within them. It was a fire that went through my eyes, traveled down my spine and gripped hold of my heart. It was a tenacious grip that never let go. At first my eyes felt the warmth of her eyes, then I felt the tingling of my spine and within a second, I felt my heart ache as if it were under some defenseless assault. Yet, simultaneously, I sensed a warm glow that surrounded my heart; a heart that was soaked in a cauldron of desire. It became a hostage, imprisoned with no ability to negotiate for its autonomy. Yes, my warm heart would beat, but by the commands of another. From that day forward, my passion overwhelmed my logic.

"Ding! Seventh floor - going down." I heard the female recording from a speaker that was suspended on the ceiling of the elevator. Finally, the elevator door opened with an invitation for me to enter. I walked in and, as I contemplated the embarrassing encounter, the elevator door closed. That woman was stunning. I liked the accent but not the snarky attitude. Within the hot and humid elevator, I mixed a deep sigh with Shakespeare's words of reassurance:

"Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow."

A trance fell upon me as my heart continued to get enveloped by the intense cover of passion. I may have met my dream girl. Since I was fifteen-years-old, I fantasized about a girl that I met at Crystal Beach, Canada. We didn't exchange a word to one another at the beach but we caught each other's attention with our eyes. I was far too bashful to approach that beautiful girl, so I didn't formally meet her but my eyes must have spoken volumes. Still, I developed an indelible memory. Interestingly, there have been days that I wished I had never seen that girl at the beach because growing up, I always compared the feeling that I experienced upon that memorable day, with every other girl that I have since met. I was apparently deep in thought because a few minutes went by when I realized I was standing in a hot, humid elevator with the door closed but I was not descending; I was still on the 7th floor. "Hey 'Romeo,'" I said to myself, "it helps if you press the ground level elevator button." And down I finally went.

I mentioned that she once denied our first verbal encounter in the parking garage. I am of the opinion that she just preferred the romance of our subsequent interaction. This is a much more glamorous story, according to her anyway. I prefer the drama of the former.

It was ten days later, after our unpleasant dealings in the parking garage. One of the internal medicine residents had a Valentine's Day party at his father's house on the beach in Boca Raton, Florida. The first, second and third year internal medicine residents were invited to attend as well as some medical students. There were approximately thirty five residents per year, so a total of one hundred and five of us were invited including significant others, if you had one. I was excited about this party because my social life had been sacrificed for both my work and studies. In short, I was in need of some extracurricular activities.

The invitation was written on what appeared to be a prescription pad; however, it was professionally scribed on elegant paper. What follows is the wording on the invitation:

Diagnosis: Stress Treatment: Friendly interaction Rx: Food and spirit (To be taken as needed) Prognosis: Fun Your appointment is scheduled on Friday, February 14 Nine o'clock Host: Thomas Weiner

I responded to Thomas with alacrity that I would attend his Valentine's Day party. How appropriate! A party is just what the doctor ordered, and I am the doctor accepting the order.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Two, in One Heart by Peter W. Carbone Copyright © 2011 by Peter W. Carbone. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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