Page 24 of Raphael (Belles & Mobsters 5)

“Where to?” he asked. “The kid’s school or the condo first.”

“School.”

My guess would be she’d go after her son first. Though he wasn’t her biological son. Sailor adopted her nephew and I had to admit, it made me admire and respect the woman. She was barely eighteen when her sister, Anya, gave birth. Normally, she wouldn’t have been qualified to adopt so young, but the Ashford connections stretched wide and deep.

I thought back to my own mother. She drowned her sorrows with white powder and alcohol. She was a good woman, until she wasn’t. She reallytriedto fill in cracks. But the drugs and her avoidance of reality interfered.

There were so many nights I had to pick her up off the floor, her own vomit staining her hair. My brother and father would kick her out of the way, cursing her in Spanish, but I’d learned somewhere along the way never to kick a dog while it's down.

But with the lack of my mother’s presence and nurturing, it left me to grow up under the influence of my father. There hadn’t been a moment during my life where I didn’t fear I’d become his clone.

The last time I saw my mother filled my mind, the memory that would haunt me until I died.

I followed the maze of the hospital corridors until I reached the room. This wasn’t a rehab, as my father called it. He’d committed my mother to an institution. My father had her tucked away in Montana. He called it a wellness retreat when it was actually a mentalinstitution.He fucking loved tormenting her.

I intended to get her out of here. It took me some time but I found her. She’d spent a month here, and knowing my mother, it felt like a year for her. Especially when my father visited. His regular once a week torment session.

My brother Vincent had been dead for several years now. Unfortunately, it turned Father's attention to my mother and other women. He wanted another heir - to secure the Santos line. The fucker didn’t like that I refused to operate like him.

I turned the corner to find my father’s men stationed outside the door. Without a second thought, I aimed my gun and pulled the trigger. Two bullets a piece. Both dead.

I made my way into the room. It was set up as an apartment but it was still a sanitarium. Fucking bastard. He couldn’t even let her die in her own home.

One glance at the living room told me she wasn’t in front of the television. It was usually what she did when she was high and my father was more than happy to supply her with drugs. I continue through the room and the kitchen. Still nothing. Not that I was surprised. I hadn’t seen my mother in the kitchen since I was a small boy.

The kitchen opened up onto a balcony. The door was open, the chilled air of Montana freezing this entire apartment. It was another form of punishment. My mother hated the cold, like a true Colombian princess she preferred hot weather.

And in her old age, it bothered her arthritis.

I stepped onto the balcony and I froze. My mother stood on the ledge of the balcony, her frail form in a wedding gown and her ebony black hair flowing in the wind. It would seem all my mother’s wardrobe was brought in too, along with the wedding dress she kept.

Jesucristo. Jesus Christ. Why in the fuck was she wearing a wedding gown?

“Mamma, come down from there,” I told her softly, trying not to startle her.

She didn’t even move. “No, hijo.” She hadn’t called me ‘son’ since I was five. “It’s time to end it all.”

“Yes, come down and we’ll talk,” I rasped. “I want to see your beautiful face, Mamma.”

She laughed. It was a bitter laugh, that spoke of disappointments and many humiliations.

“Raphael, my angel,” she said eventually. “I’m glad your brother Vincent is dead. You’ll turn things around. Make it the way it should be.”

I took another step forward as I put my gun back into my holster. “Come down, Mamma.”

She turned around to face me and that was when I finally saw it. Her face was black and blue. My fucking father must have beaten the crap out of her. I fisted my hands, worried I’d punch the wall and send my mother over the balcony.

I hated the old bastard. Fucking hated him and couldn’t wait to see his cold body hit the ground.

“Mamma, it’s cold out here,” I tried again. “Let’s go inside.”

Her cheeks were bruised, her lip split and her one eye swollen shut. She was in the worst shape I had ever seen her.

Despite the cold, I felt sweat bead on my forehead.

“My angel, don’t ever be like him,” she whispered, as one lone tear rolled down her cheek.

This wasn’t good. She had to be going through withdrawal, and combined with my father’s beating, she had reached her limit.

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