Page 41 of Isaia

“Oh, Everly.” She looks me in the eyes, her own brimming with tears that catch the flicker of the chandelier’s light. “I love you so much. Please come home.”

A heavy reality rushes back in, and I let go of her hand, tugging a strand of my hair behind my ear. “His house is not my home,” I say icily.

“He took you in when your father died. Took care of you, gave you everything you wanted and needed. Why can’t you see that he only wants to do what’s best for you?”

The sharp turn in the conversation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, as sour and unwelcome as the untouched amuse-bouche in front of me.

I let my hands fall into my lap, clenching them tightly to keep from lashing out, to keep from saying all the things that are crowding at the back of my mind.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” I say.

“Neither did I.”

“Yet you’re using the opportunity to plead his case.”

“I’m not pleading,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I’m just stating the facts, something you seem to choose to ignore.”

“Are you serious, Mom? I came here because I thought… I thought you wanted to talk about you. About your diagnosis.” I pause, swallowing the knot in my throat. “But instead, it’s just more of the same. Defending him. Making excuses.”

She sets down the menu, her fingers pressing against the leather cover. Her eyes soften, but I can see the walls going back up, brick by brick. “Everly, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” I press, my voice shaking. “Because here you are defending him—again, like he’s not trying to control my life.” I lean forward, trying to keep myself from raising my voice. “I’m not even his fucking daughter.”

“Everly Beaumont,” she scolds, glancing around us. “Watch your language. Michele has loved you like his own since you were a child, and it hurt him deeply when you chose to live with your father instead of me. You would rather have lived with the man who cheated on me, almost destroyed me, than with a man who has taken care of me ever since the day we first met.”

“You think it was easy for me? A teenage girl to be away from her mother, to look in the eyes of the man who broke our family apart every single day?” I shake my head, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat. “I chose to live with Dad because of your husband. I didn’t want to be a part of that…life,” I bite out. “You know what he does, how he makes his millions.”

“He’s a businessman,” she responds, pursing her lips, her tone touching the rim of defensive.

“Businessman,” I scoff. “Is that what you call it, Mom? Is that how you sleep at night?”

“Just because you do not approve of his methods does not mean they are invalid.”

“He’s a fucking criminal, Mom.”

“Everly—”

“I told you what I heard that night, him and his associates. When you came back from that Broadway show, I told you.”

“And I told you, you heard wrong.” She diverts her gaze, opening her menu. “Michele is a good man, a good husband. You’re holding on to this idea of him that’s not real. You don’t know the sacrifices he’s made for us. The way he’s provided. He did not have to take you in after your father died.”

“He kinda did, me being a minor and all.” My sarcasm is thick. “I’m pretty sure his wife wouldn’t have appreciated it if he left her only child out on the street.”

“Nonetheless, he took care of you. And he’s doing what he thinks is best.”

“For who?” My stomach churns, a deep anger bubbling up. “Me or him?”

“A man in his position has a lot of targets on his back.” She inhales, like she’s consciously trying to diffuse. “All he wants is to make sure you’re protected.”

“Protected?” I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow in the quiet of the dining room. “I don’t get it. You’re this beautiful, intelligent, strong woman, yet you somehow are incapable of seeing through that man’s bullshit.”

“Because there is nothing to see.” This time, she raises her voice. “He makes me happy.”

“Of course he does,” I shoot back. “You’re his trophy wife, a wife who knows her place, doesn’t ask questions, and looks good onhis arm. You’re the whole package, the cover model of a mafia wife.”

Her lips press together tightly at the word. Mafia. There’s a thousand years of disapproval in her eyes as she stares at me, the silence stretching so thin it's a tightrope I'm about to fall off.

The chandelier light glints coldly off her diamond earrings, casting a cruel sparkle against the white tablecloth.

---