I wanted to die.
“I didn’t say any of ittoyou, and I thought you were too busy playing,” I snapped, then instantly regretted the tone. Taking a deep breath, I changed to Italian, which he understood perfectly well since he’d been bi-lingual since he started jabbering as a toddler. “It’s not polite to tell people things like that. It could hurt Ivan’s feelings.”
“Did we hurt your feelings, tatko?” Brady swiveled, big, soulfully dark eyes fixated on his sire.
“Sorry, little man, I don’t speak Italian,” Ivan said gently.
“Oh, I forgot.” Brady scrunched his nose and tried again in English. “Did we hurt your feelings?”
I groaned. There was no good way to extricate myself from this situation that was probably hilarious to anyone without children, while other parents would share my discomfort, but secretly be glad they weren’t in my shoes.
“Not at all,” Ivan responded. “But I’m not poor. I have heaps and heaps of gold.”
“Just like a dragon,” Brady said enthusiastically.
“Run to the backyard, and I’ll be right there to help you dig up a box,” Ivan encouraged.
Brady took off like a shot the moment his feet hit the ground.
But it wasn’t over. Ivan turned to me.
“What made you say that?” he asked, voice rough. “What makes you assume I’m poor? Just because I don’t live in a mansion like your cousin?”
I held up my hands in defeat.
“For your information, I have enough money to bury the Mancinis and fill every room in their house with stacks and stacks of bills, gold, or whatever other currency you like.” There was a bitter note under the triumph in the mobster’s voice.
“Then why the used furniture?” I blurted out, clearly a glutton for punishment.
“If my furniture displeases you, buy something you like,” he sneered.
Yep, it was official. I’d struck a chord.
“It isn’t luxury I’m after,” I said tartly, which only made another cough tickle. “It’s cleanliness. Your carpet is ancient. Because you wear shoes in the house, who knows what’s caked—”cough-cough“—in the threads.”
For the first time, Ivan lowered his gaze. He seemed to look, really look, at his house. It probably still smelled fresh today, but only because I spent hours scouring every surface. The mold in the cracks was dying thanks to the bleach, but it would come back. It was impossible to tell what color the carpet originally had been. And the linoleum was peeling in the kitchen. The walls—those hadn’t been painted in the last decade.
“I just don’t think it’s healthy for a child to grow up somewhere with mold, mildew, and dirt. Dirt outside is fine—good for them! But if we’re staying here—”
Ivan’s gaze snapped to mine. “You are. Or did you not learn your lesson last night?”
Because I was too busy coughing and clearing my throat, I waved my hand. When I finally took a ragged gasp, I continued, “I don’t want Brady growing up in the ghetto, Ivan.”
“The ghetto,” he spat. “You know nothing, princess.”
It wasn’t an endearment. The word made me feel spoilt and stupid.
“Our house in Carrington, it’s a cottage. Smaller than this.” I lifted a shoulder in defeat. “It’s not about size. That’s all.”
Ivan rubbed his bare toe against the threadbare carpet. “You may…have a point.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said softly, and not because volume would irritate my throat. I meant the apology. With my whole heart.
If he realized that, he didn’t comment. Instead, he turned and stalked to the back door. It slammed hard behind him.
Leaning back into the flattened cushions, I sighed. I felt like shit, and not from being sick. But I was right, little comfort that that was. I wanted Brady to grow up somewhere safe. Somewhere clean.
That is why we have to leave.
