“Mama.”
“Peppino?” Her tone jumped, then fell to a whisper-yell. “Sandro Rosetti, where are you?”
“Mama, I’m fine,” I promised. I could feel Golden watching me from his chair.
“Where are you? What happened? I’ve been worried sick. You missed dinner on Sunday and—“
“Mama,” I cut her off. “Mama, stop.”
I waited for her to quiet down. “How’s things at the house?”
“I’mdistressed, Sandro.”
“I know. I know.” I dragged my tongue across the front of my teeth. “What about Dad?”
Her silence was the only answer I needed to confirm the suspicions I’d been fighting off since I woke up in Golden’s guest room.
“He had the Molinaro boy over for dinner on Sunday, like everything was normal,” she said. “Are you hurt, Peppino?”
My breath caught in my throat and I dared a quick look at Golden, who still watched me from his seat. I looked away.
“I’m fine. Or… I’ll be fine.”
“Do you need a doctor?” she asked.
“Please don’t worry, Mama. I’m safe.”
“Where are you? Whose phone is this?”
“Mama.” I let out a rough breath. “You know better.”
“You’ve beenmissing, Sandro.”
“I’ll call you in a few days. I just wanted to check in.”
“I’m too old for this,” she said gently.
“Me too,” I agreed. “I love you.”
“I love you, Peppino.”
I ended the call and flipped the phone over, sliding the case open and picking out the SIM card. Beside me, Golden held his hand out and I dropped it into his waiting palm. I set the phone on the other arm of the chair and took a drink of my coffee, so cold it was nearly iced. With a grimace, I set the mug back down.
“You slept late,” he said, as though in answer for the drink.
“I don’t even know what day it is,” I admitted.
“Thursday.”
Hadn’t it just been Tuesday? I hated losing days. I hated being hurt and weak, and I hated feeling like I had no control over my fucking life.
“You sure that doc of yours gave me antibiotics and not some fucking loopy pills?”
“I’m sure.” Golden stood up, grabbing my coffee and taking it into the kitchen.
When he didn’t return, I followed behind him in time to see him taking my mug out of the microwave and setting it on the counter. I pulled out one of the barstools and sat. He put the SIM card down and pulled a lighter out of a drawer, burning it until it smoked and curled, then he threw it in the trash.
“You’re being oddly quiet, Foster,” I said.
