Page 14 of Rescued By the Mafia

“Mother,” he said warmly as she stood to greet him. “Thank you for coming over on short notice.” He never would be able to admit he’d forgotten he had reached out to her earlier.

Eleonora De Salvo stood to her full height of five-foot-three and opened her arms for him, the balloon sleeves of her indigo blue blouse extending almost like wings around her. “At least greet your mother with a hug, Dante.”

He obligingly bent down and swallowed her in a quick, tight embrace before straightening again. He nearly stepped on one of the shopping bags on the floor in front of his sofa. She’d lined them all up, the various colors and bag sizes assuring him she’d gone to no less than four stores in quick succession.

Newark’s shopping districts loved his mother, of that, Dante had no doubt.

Dante adjusted slightly to the side and reached back, pulling Iris parallel with him. “Mother, this is Iris Jayne.” He let his fingers rest between Iris’s shoulder blades, hoping to keep her calm. “Iris, my mother, Eleonora De Salvo.”

Eleonora clicked her tongue and glided forward, the wide pantleg of her black pants rustling against the nearest bags. “Such a stiff introduction for such a beautiful young woman, Dante. I’m sure I taught you better than that.” She grabbed hold of Iris’s hands by the wrist. “I do apologize for that boy, sometimes he forgets his manners.”

Dante fought the need to rub at his temple. “Mother.”

She ignored him, continuing to speak to Iris. “You must be the woman he mentioned.” She raked her hazel eyes over Iris briefly. “You really are quite beautiful, sweetheart, but if you don’t mind me saying so, you could use a couple good homecooked meals.”

Dante frowned. He should have warned his mother to mind herself.

Iris’s shoulders tightened. “Please don’t call me that.”

Eleonora blinked up at her, then cast a confused glance to him.

“I’m sorry,” Iris said, “but I don’t like that term. I would appreciate it if you used something else.”

“You mean ‘sweetheart’?” Eleonora asked.

Iris nodded. “Yes.”

Dante slid his hand up and let his fingers curl over her shoulder, pressing into her skin just enough to try and relieve the tension that had built there. “Perhaps wait until you’ve gotten to know her better before settling on endearments, Mother.”

Eleonora looked between them for a moment before inclining her head. “Of course. I meant no offense.”

Iris released a breath, her body relaxing a bit. “I understand.”

“Well,” Eleonora said, releasing Iris’s hands and turning toward the row of bags. “I brought enough for a week or so, depending on your needs.”

“That should be perfect, Mother,” Dante said. “We appreciate your help.”

With his hand still on her shoulder, Dante felt Iris turn to look up at him before turning again to face his mother. “What are you both talking about?”

“Clothes, dear,” Eleonora said. She lifted the nearest bag and handed it to Iris. “Dante said he had a woman in his home who was in need of a new wardrobe and could I please do some emergency shopping—so I did.”

The bag tipped halfway over and a slip of smooth, lavender fabric rolled free before Iris got herself and her armload back under control. “What?” She twisted back to face him. “He said what?”

Dante couldn’t help but grin, just a little. She really did need to work on adjusting to him taking care of her. “You said you needed clothes,” he replied. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone in a strange place and I wasn’t about to send one of my men out to buy you lingerie. So I asked my mother to buy a full wardrobe for a woman with your sizes, enough for at least a week.”

“Which as you can both see,” Eleonora said before Iris could respond, “I outdid myself. So, I would like to be repaid with an explanation. And dinner, of course. You can’t expect your poor mother to go home and cook after all that shopping.”

Dante sighed. “You’re always welcome for dinner, Mother,” he said. “Though we both know you haven’t cooked a meal with your own hands since you were twenty.”

Eleonora smiled. “You say that like it was so long ago.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“Dante,” Iris said, adjusting her hold on her bag and raising a finger to wave in his face. “Surely you know it’s rude to talk about a woman’s age.”

He smiled. She’d recovered well enough if she was talking back to him again. So he stretched out his arm, caught her around the middle, and hauled her back to his side as if his mother needed the emphasis. “This is the woman I’m going to marry.”

five

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