Maybe I had more in common with my father than I thought.
She got out of the car with a quiet goodbye and once she was inside the building, I floored the gas pedal.
Sucking in a breath, I walked through the front door, removing my earphones as I headed for the kitchen. Apart from the quiet clacking of knitting needles coming from the dining table, accompanied by the radio playing softly in the kitchen, the house was quiet. The air inside smelled faintly of burnt toast and coffee.
Mom was sitting at the dining table in her chair, like she did most mornings as she ate her breakfast. This morning, she was knitting; a hobby she had picked up after the incident.
She smiled. "How was the run?"
"Good." Out of habit, I crossed to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee, passing the spot on the floor where I found her so many years ago. I turned and leaned against the counter, noting her watching me, before I brought the cup to my lips.
"Something is on your mind."
I swallowed and set the cup down, crossing my arms over my chest. "Nope."
She watched me for a moment, waiting for me to let up.
I let a lazy smile slip onto my lips to prove everything was fine and then nodded to the knitting in her lap. "Who's that for?"
She rolled her eyes but sighed as she turned her attention to her project. She set aside the knitting needles and held up a tiny, yellow, woolen boot with a white bow on the front. "The Kelly's a few houses down are expecting a baby girl, so I'm making them a gift."
"Huh." I picked up my coffee again, happy to steer the conversation away from my thoughts. Even if it meant walking straight into another, slightly less uncomfortable one.
"You know," she started, returning to her knitting with a little more intent, every so often flicking her eyes to me, her accent sharper. "I hope one day I'll be making these for grandchildren of my own. Before I can't think for myself."
I let out a huffed laugh as I pushed away from the counter and walked to the doorway. "You might be waiting a while. I don't plan on havin’ kids until I'm at least forty."
"Oh!" She exclaimed, throwing a bundle of yellow wool in my direction, aimed at my head but sailing beyond my shoulder and rolling to a stop at the front door.
“Love you too,” I chuckled, ducking into the hallway, leaving her to mumble to herself in frustrated Italian as I headed for the shower. Only then did I let my smile drop as a dull ache formed in my chest.
If I could, I would give her the world. After what she had been through, what he had done, she deserves nothing less. But all she wanted was grandkids. Or at least more of a family to spoil after her chance of having kids again was taken from her.
But kids weren’t a possibility for me, and it was blatantly obvious why. I was a criminal. If anyone came too close, they got hurt. There was no way I would do that to a kid.
Antonio called me in to drive for another meeting, this time over in Hell's Kitchen where one of his other night clubs existed. A slightly more elegant one to The Den, it didn't have a basement but served as a good meeting place because of the private booths. Antonio liked having options for meeting associates.
I had only been inside this place once; A couple of years ago when my attitude needed some adjusting. Since then, Antonio decided it would be better if I waited outside.
Smashing a wine bottle over the head of an upstart businessman, who had made a snide, assumptive remark about my upbringing, hadn’t gone down well with the boss.
"Let’s not scare off the paying customers, Dean," Antonio had said before subtly ramming the end of his cane into my already bruised ribs, clapping a hand on my shoulder as I keeled over with the pain. I knew better than to argue with him, so I walked out and stayed out.
I lit my third cigarette of the night as I sat against the hood of Antonio's black Mercedes, parked in a quiet side street. I let my mind wander while I waited. It was no surprise it went to what happened over the weekend.
It was the first time I had seen her carefree. And I wasn’t the only one to notice. The lingering stares of other men lurking nearby, watching her like she was bait, led me to guide her out of the warehouse. Right before we stepped outside, she tugged at my shirt.
I expected her to complain about leaving. Instead, she rose on her toes, slid one delicate hand to the side of my neck, and leaned closer. Her eyes closed, and her lips parted. She wanted to kiss me but came up short and stumbled face-first into my chest, giggling tiredly before her arms looped around my waist.
I tensed. Not because of what she wanted, but out of surprise. She was an affectionate drunk.
“You’re like a warm tree,” she murmured, nuzzling her cheek against my shirt.
“Alright,” I chuckled, unwrapping her arms from around me. I held her gently by the arms. “You’re sleeping this off in the car.”
She muttered her protest but turned for the parking lot anyway.
I remembered waking up in the backseat of my car, but it hadn't been the morning sun shining on my face that woke me. No, it was the weight of her head on my shoulder, her soft scent of jasmine and fresh linen, and the touch of her hand on my stomach.
