Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
In a literal moment of sheer panic, I could scream. But when I see the older woman coming around the corner, taking her long dress gloves off before she spots me, I feel a little relieved.
It’s the same woman I saw driving.
The same older woman who was supposedly following us in the mall as well.
If nothing else, I’d be relieved to hear she’s a guest in the hotel and that all this has been a huge coincidence.
Her mouth creases into a frown when she sees me, and I’m struck at once by her high-end perfume and then by how she’s looking me up and down.
“Maria Portello, is it?” she asks dryly, not expecting a reply and stifling a little laugh to herself when I don’t.
I feel my jaw loosen, and my mouth hangs open as she steps past me, almost like she’s stepping over a corpse, and raps firmly on the opposite suite’s door.
There’s a slight pause, then Rocco opens the door. He’s wearing only the new jeans he bought.
The only clothes he could grab before he went over there, I’m guessing.
But damn, if I don’t mind watching him wear those and nothing else.
His eyes fix on the woman’s for a long time before they gradually shift to mine.
“Rocco,” the woman says in a low, smoky voice. Thickly accented too.
If she was any younger, I’d be emerald green with envy right now.
But there’s just something else about her….
“Mama,” Rocco says quietly, moving aside as she saunters into the suite.
Rocco’s eyes beg me not to say a word but to get in there with him as well.
Did he just say Mama? Like…as in his mom?
He didn’t say it in a childish way, not like a baby. No.
He said Mama the same way I know he’d address his father, Papa.
It’s a tone filled with respect. A little surprised today, but there’s a ton of respect in his voice when he acknowledges her.
Something I’ve noticed most people, let alone families seem to have conveniently forgotten a lot about lately.
Especially in my own life.
My own family?
Meh, that’s a whole other story. And not one anywhere near as exciting.
I feel like I’m being literally sucked into the room.
I can’t even feel my body moving, and the sight of Don Martinelli should shock me, but it doesn’t.
“This is the girl you thought was Maria Portello?” the older woman murmurs to herself, moving her eyes over me again and making me squirm before she finally smiles.
It’s a big, generous smile with as much passion and energy as the sheen of her lipstick.
And it’s not an angry, evil smile either.
From her little laugh, I think that my appearance genuinely amuses her.
“I’ve explained things to my father,” Rocco tells me in a low voice, moving closer to me, and once his hand hooks into mine, I feel like I can breathe again.
Like whatever happens next doesn’t matter anymore.
Because he was telling the whole truth, he was right.
It’s Rocco and me from now on, no matter what happens.
Even his estranged mother reappears simultaneously as his crime boss father, who I thought we were running from.
“And I guess we’ve got some explaining of our own,” Rocco’s mom echoes, making a gesture with her gloves in her hands as if to ask, ‘What? Is nobody gonna take a lady’s coat and gloves?’
Her son fusses over her in an instant, and old man Martinelli takes her hand in his and kisses it.
Before either of them say anything, it’s clear to both Rocco and me that they’re still very much in love and that whatever made his mom leave in the first place hasn’t tarnished the shine on the love of an old married couple.
We move into the suite's living area, which, although similar to our own, seems smaller.
Rocco’s Mama and Papa take their seats first, and then Rocco directs me to a single seat while he takes the other opposite his folks.
I’m not sure why, but this is starting to feel a lot like a job interview.
And it’s not one I’m dressed for, let alone prepared for.
But Rocco, as always, does most of the talking. And in a few moments, we both have at least some more information that we both crave.
Mainly, “What are you doing here, Mama? Why did you leave us?” and then there’s the other part. But I’ll get to that.
That last part he wants to talk to his folks about…. That’s a doozy.
“I’m Catriona Martinelli,” the older woman says to me, introducing herself without offering her hand.
“And this scoundrel is my husband of more years than I care to remember…,” she begins, clasping her hand over her husband’s as he looks at her adoringly, not daring to interrupt her as she explains herself to her son.
“A long time ago, when you were little, Rocco, your father was worried about the Portello’s living up to their promise to have me killed.”