Page 16 of Bossy Ex's Brother

No matter how much I tried to pretend and sneak the money to her, she always knew, and a part of her resented me for it. Sheresented even more that she knew I had to do it, that there was no other choice for us.

She crossed her hands now, refusing to speak and waiting for it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, uttering the cursed words. “Some work came up.”

Her lips tightened even more at the mention of work. My mother wasn’t entirely aware of what I did for a living, but she knew the gist of it. She knew enough to know that what I did now made stealing car parts look like child’s play.

Still, she unlatched the door and opened it, stepping aside as I crossed the threshold. Then she turned around and began heading toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” I admitted, and my stomach was already tightening in anticipation of the delicious meal to come. No one in this world was a better cook than my mother, and that was saying something, seeing as how I’d dined in Michelin-star restaurants. Even their thousand-dollar menus paled in comparison to Mia Rossi’s Lasagna.

“Sit at the dinner table. I’ll get you something,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I muttered in eager obedience as she headed into the kitchen. I heard pots and plates moving around and knew she was warming up the food when the smells of basil filled the air. In less than two minutes, she came out of the kitchen with a plate of ossobuco and some risotto and focaccia on the side.

She placed it in front of me.

“Grazie,” I said, and her face softened in a reluctant smile. She always did that whenever I spoke Italian with my American accent. Her eyes showed her tiredness, and I nearly regretted waking her up this late, except I knew she hadn’t really been asleep. She would have been awake with worry, her mind flyingwith the possibilities of why I didn’t come over. My mother turned worrying into a sport.

You could tell from the wrinkles that lined her face, but she was still a pretty woman and had been for most of her life. She’d never remarried after my father died, although there’d been suitors trying to woo her every Sunday at church. Even when I didn’t pull deliberate pranks to drive them away, she always ultimately turned them down.

As I wolfed down the food, my mother sat and watched me in between taking sips of her coffee. The silence was slightly awkward, but these dinners typically were. We suffered through them because it was better than nothing. We’d reached a truce of sorts. She couldn’t ask any questions about my job or life, and I couldn’t ask how she felt about it.

“How’s your heart?” I asked after I finished gulping down the rest of the meal. She’d had a heart attack a few years ago. One of the most terrifying moments of my life.

“Good,” she said simply. “I’m eating healthy and doing all my exercises. Also, trying to reduce my stress.”

“That’s good,” I said. “So your doctor doesn’t think you’ll need the surgery.”

She shook her head, and I felt relieved. That was one less thing I had to think about it.

It was ironic that I, a man responsible for countless deaths, was so terrified at the thought of losing my mother. If my men could see me now, they would laugh. But I didn’t give a damn if they called me a mama’s boy. I was one. This woman had sacrificed her entire life for my brother and me. She may not like the fact that I was now a criminal, but she was the only person I cared about and the only one who truly cared about me.

“Want some more?” Mom asked, getting up to take my plate, but I waved her down, standing up myself.

“I’ll get it.”

I headed toward the kitchen, sighting some more risotto still in the pot. I scooped some of it onto my plate and then ladled a generous heaping of her special sauce. I also took a peek into her fridge at the same time, noting the things she was running out of. Mom refused to take any physical money from me—blood money, as she called it—so I always had to use underhanded means to make sure she was getting all the things she needed. I typically paid the neighbor to drop off a list of groceries every week and say that they were from the church. I also paid off her doctor and told him to tell her that they were taking her under one of their charitable programs. I had no idea if she believed all these things were coincidences, but she never brought it up, so I continued the farce for now.

I took a mental picture before grabbing water and heading back to the table. My mother was still sitting there, deep in thought.

I sat down and was about to put another delicious bite into my mouth when out of nowhere, she spoke:

“Have you heard from your brother?”

I put down the fork, instantly losing my appetite.

“No,” I said. “Have you?”

She shook her head, and I could see from the look in her eyes that Lorenzo’s lack of contact was still hurting her. Just one more strike against the dumb bastard.

“Please look for him,” she said in a quiet voice that echoed with meaning. “And if you find him, let him know that—”

“I’ll look for him,” I said. “But you can deliver any messages you want to him yourself.”Right before I killed the bastard.

My mother shook her head. “You have to forgive your bother.” She constantly uttered this plea even after everything he’d done.

I smiled at her, a sardonic look on my face. “Maybe you can forgive him, but as far as I’m concerned, the bastard is dead to me.”

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