Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“I still can’t believe you knew he was in the mafia and didn’t tell me.”
“I still can’t believe you didn’t hear the name Grassi and already know he was in the mafia,” she shot back, rolling her eyes at me.
“What? Is it common knowledge?”
“Around these parts, yes.”
“You don’t have reservations about him because of it?” I asked.
“I think it seems as though those Grassi men are very protective over their women. And their children, one can assume. Why would I have reservations?”
“Because they… kill people,” I said.
“Darling, I killed a man tonight. Do you have reservations about me?”
“No. But it’s… different. He was threatening us.”
“Yes. But, in my mind, I don’t imagine these very smart, very careful Grassi men are going out to look for a fight. If violence happens, I believe it is in direct response to some threat to them, their livelihood, or their loved ones. I know it is not all ‘peace, love, and light’ of me, but I can understand that. I can even support that. The question isn’t about what I can understand or support, though, it is what you can,” she reminded me.
My mom had always been good at that.
She had a knack for knowing when I was asking for her opinion on things in an attempt to base my own off of hers. It was something she didn’t stand for, always challenging me to make up my own mind, to follow my own heart. Even if it was different from her own.
“I think I love him enough that I don’t care what his job is,” I admitted. “Even if it puts me in danger. Which is probably not health—“
“Maybe analyzing your heart through the microscope of your brain is not the best course of action,” she suggested, reaching to take the coffee, clearly deciding two shots was enough.
And because that sounded like fair advice—not to mention that I didn’t want to come to any conclusion that didn’t mean I could have a life and future and babies with Nino—I decided to let any lingering worries about the situation fall away.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Nino’s mom dropped off a bunch of meals.”
“Amazing meals that I don’t need to cook? Sign me up,” she said, giving me a slightly tired smile.
Tired enough that after I fed her, I begged her to go upstairs and get some rest in one of the guest rooms.
“What’s the matter?” I asked as she looked up toward the loft, lips pursed.
“Oh, nothing. I am trying to decide which room is least likely for me to overhear anything… adult in nature,” she said, laughing when my face twisted in disgust.
“We’re not going to be doing anything adult with you in the suite,” I insisted.
“No, no, of course not,” she said in a placating tone as she patted my arm. “Thank you for coming to save me, my sweet girl,” she said, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.
“Thanks for actually saving me, Mom,” I said, giving her a smile before watching her go up the stairs, a little worried about how steep they were after my own experience with scotch. But she didn’t so much as stumble.
Alone, I went back and finally had my shot, finding that the silence and time alone was bringing the nerves on that I’d been expecting a lot sooner.
I was nobody’s hero, but I’d rushed in to save my mom.
She was the gentlest, kindest woman I’d ever known, but she’d stabbed a man in the neck with a screwdriver.
I’d… tried to shoot someone.
Nino had actually shot someone.
It was a lot.
Nerves were to be expected.
I’d be worried if I wasn’t feeling a little shaky, if my belly wasn’t a bit wobbly.
So I didn’t try to fight those feelings. I let them flow through me as I kept my body busy, trying to burn off the traces of anxiety through focused effort.
I washed up after the food, leaving a plate for Nino in the fridge. I cleaned the counters. I found my mother’s bloody nightgown, filled up the sink, and bleached the hell out of it. I was sure Nino was going to want to just… get rid of it. But I wanted to be extra sure nothing was going to come back to haunt her because of me. And my connection to Nino.
Once I was pretty sure that it had bleached long enough to remove any traces of—what did my mom call it?—forensic evidence, I wrung it out and put it in a trash bag near the door.
Done with that, and still with no word from Nino, I paced. I drank coffee until my bones jangled.
Until, finally, I heard a beeping sound coming from the little intercom thing.
Grabbing the elevator key, I rushed over to it.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Hey sweetheart,” Nino said.
I didn’t say anything else.