Page 12 of Imogen

Emily smiles up at Cole, leaning into him. “She’s offered to cook for our wedding.”

My eyes widen. “You’re getting married?”

Taking his fiancée’s hand, Cole nods. “We are.”

“Congratulations.”

The door knocks against the wall as the storm of my mother enters the room. “Mio figlio, you worry your mother,” she declares loudly.

Emily leans closer, squeezing my hand. “We will come and see you when you’re back home. Thank you again for everything you did for us.”

“Everything,” Cole insists.

“You’re welcome. And thank you for what you’ve done.”

When they leave, the nurse following after them, I let out a tired breath and turn to my mother. She is in her fifties yet still manages to look in her forties and has the energy of a toddler. Her black hair is pinned up at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing the necklace my dad gave to her, which she attached his wedding ring to. Her thick, dark eyebrows rise as she stares at me. All my sisters and younger brother take after my mum. They have her dark eyes and dark hair, whereas I take after my dad. I have his eyes and his colour hair.

“I’m sorry,Mamma. I was resting.”

“You’re forgiven,mio figlio. Your sisters will be here shortly. They picked up Lucca from football for me.”

“You let Stefania drive?”

Stefania is the oldest female sibling, and although she was blessed with brains, driving is an impossible mission for her. Sometimes I wonder if she passed her test because of her beauty, because the girl has had more minor incidents than anyone I’ve ever known.

“Of course not. How that girl passed her test is beyond me. I let Carina drive,” she explains.

My eyes widen. Carina isn’t a bad driver, but her attention span is shockingly a lot like the Disney fish calledDory.

“You would have been better letting Isabella drive. She’s more responsible,” I point out.

“That girl can’t take her eyes off her phone,” she remarks. “Soon, your brother will pass his test, and he can drive himself.”

“Mamma,” I chuckle, grimacing at the pain when it pulls the stitches taut. “Ouch.”

“Mio figlio, I’m going to set up a bed at home for you,” she whispers, her words broken.

The pain in her eyes hurts more than my injuries. “Mum, I have a home.”

“You have a flat. There’s a difference,” she argues. “How will you get around?”

“It’s all on the same level,Mamma. I’ll struggle more with you by going up and down the stairs to go to the bathroom. I’ll be okay. I’m not leaving for another couple of days yet, so we’re good.”

She takes a deep breath. “Then I have a couple of days to change your mind.”

“You won’t but you’re welcome to try.”

She fixes the blanket at my waist. “You are stubborn like yourpapà.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” I point out.

Her head lowers, her gaze on the blanket, where my injuries hide beneath it. “You scared me, Benjamin.”

“I didn’t mean to. I promise.”

She places her hands on her lap, forcing a smile. “OuramatoImogen is outside. Have you seen her?”

I smile at her endearment of calling Imogen our beloved. Mum has always loved Imogen. There are times when I think she likes her more than me.

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