Page 11 of Matteo

She finally slows as she gets to six out of the eight ounces. Finishing the bottle, she’s happy and smiling. I lay her on my legs, putting my feet up on the coffee table to bring her up more to see me. My cell phone rings in my pocket. I snag it and sigh at the display warning me it’s my mother.

Fuck.

CHAPTER 4

Matteo

“Yes, Mom.”

“Matthew, I have brought you dinner. Are you at home or the clinic?” Despite being born and raised in Dallas, her voice is ever the crisp northeastern accent of a Connecticut debutant.

It’s her nanny’s accent. A nanny hired because she previously nannied for the Vanderbilt family. The nanny raised my mother and her brothers and sisters. Her parents barely made an appearance in her life.

Shit, now I feel bad. She brought me dinner again. Because she’s aware that I don’t eat properly. I run on protein shakes, scrambled eggs, and delivery. Although I’m not ready yet to share Layla or Amy with anyone—let alone my mom—I sure as hell am not going to hide them. “I’m home. You can come on up.”

“Wonderful, dear. Five minutes or so.”

The front desk called before allowing visitors up—except anyone we had on a list. Family had their own cards to scan in the elevators to come up to the condo. Mom learned to call before simply knocking on my door. I didn’t like to wear much more than my boxers at home. She found out the hard way by coming up without calling when I answered the door without thinking.

Opening the door with Layla on my hip, I’m an ass for finding her reaction amusing. Wide green eyes go to Layla, and her mouth falls open. She looks to me, then back to Layla. She blinks a few times.

“Mathew, darling, is that your daughter?” I can’t tell if she’s happy or not.

To everyone but my mother, I’m Matteo. The difference is that my mother wanted to name me Matthew after her beloved brother, who died a few years before I was born.

My father wanted his children to have names that honored our Latin roots. While my mother was recovering from her cesarian surgery, he filled out the birth certificate with the name Matteo instead of Matthew. Despite previously agreeing to Matthew—she never forgave him for it.

I remember the way Javier found out he had a daughter. I laugh. “Kind of sort of. This is Layla. Layla, say hello to your Gigi. Her mother is in bed. She came into the clinic today with a bad case of strep throat. Once she’s feeling better, I’m going to marry her.”

Her hand goes up to the base of her throat. “Matthew, my sweet, beautiful child. You know I love you, right?”

I shrug and nod. While I grew up resenting the revolving door nannies we had in place of her as an actual mother. Her explanation of it was how she was raised, so she believed it was how things were supposed to be was understandable. Once she realized how her lack of a presence in our lives hurt me and my brothers, she apologized and attempted to make amends.

Also, she stepped in against my grandfather. In an attempt to manipulate me not to become a doctor, he refused to pay for college or give me any access to the family trust fund. Up until that point, my mother never went against my grandfather—even when she wanted to. His word was law in our family.

My mother never said a word to my grandfather—that I was aware of. She told me if I wanted to be a doctor, all I needed to worry about was getting into school. She would take care of everything else. And she did.

She paid my tuition, gave me a monthly allowance and a credit card in case of emergencies, bought a condo in New York for me to live in for my undergrad, and then a home in Baltimore for medical school. She was there when I needed her in every way.

“Have you lost your mind? You cannot meet a woman and decide you are going to marry her the same day. What does she think about this plan of yours? Does she know you are a Castillo? Or maybe she saw a white coat and?—”

“Mother, Amy is unaware I’m wealthy. She might have seen the white coat and stethoscope, but she has no idea I plan on making her my wife. We’ve barely managed to speak thirty words to each other?—”

“Jesus fucking christ, Matteo Alphonso Castillo.” I hold Layla close and wonder if I should put her in her crib.

My mother has never sworn in my presence. Her repeated remark of people who swore are not simply uncouth but unintelligent to rely on such words is something I’ve heard often. She also hasn’t said all three of my names at once since I was ten years old and trapped Javier in the dryer and had him go around a few times. He wanted to go in. So, I thought being grounded wasn’t a fair punishment.

“Give me that baby right now. I am calling my housekeeper to prepare a room for the poor woman. She can recover in my home, where she and the baby are well taken care of. And not at the mercy of a man who has clearly lost his mind and should be seeking the care of a therapist.” She holds out her hands for Layla.

Layla leans into me and babbles something around the fingers she’s sucking on. Hmm, she’s probably teething. I run a hand over her head and kiss her to reassure her.

“Amy and Layla aren’t going anywhere. I’m already going to make an appointment with the therapist Rafe found me. I’ll send an email to her today. Since I’m going to make changes in my life to give them the time and attention they deserve—the first of which is cutting my working hours from eighty to only forty. It’s going to take some adjusting. I will need outside input to ensure I don’t indirectly take anything out on Layla or Amy?—”

“Wait, you are cutting your hours down?” She’s frowning as much as the Botox will allow. She barely looks ten years older than me instead of the twenty-three years she is due to years of Botox and peels.

“Of course. I already hired the person who will take my hours to keep me from going over forty. Now that I’m thinking of it, I should also have someone who can do part time and is willing to be on call as needed. I’m sure there are going to be times Amy or Layla need me, and I won’t be able to go in to work.”

A hand goes flat in the middle of her chest. “You already hired someone? And now you are thinking of hiring another person…” She sits down on the leather sofa, her hands clenched in her lap. “I am going to need you to explain, very slowly, why you believe you are going to marry someone you have barely spoken thirty words to.”

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