She was a child.
The thought hit like a gunshot every damn time.
The door creaked open. “Niccolò,” my mother’s voice pulled me back. Her silhouette filled the frame like it always did—one hand on her hip, fire in her stance, and that same sharp tone she used when scolding me as a kid.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“It’s almost 6:30. What are you doing here?”
I glanced at my phone. Shit—it was past six. Time had slipped through my fingers like sand. Ever since we opened, I’ve been either back here crunching numbers or out on the floor pretending everything was fine.
“Sorry,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I was doing inventory. Trying to see where we can cut back.”
“Ah.” She gave me that look—the one where she’s alreadydissecting my soul. “You sure it has nothing to do with your blonde wife?”
“Why do you have to say it like that?”
“Like what?” she said, her accent thickening with that innocent tone she only used when being anything but innocent.
“Blonde wife. What does it matter if she’s blonde?”
“It doesn’t.”
I groaned out loud, dragging my hands down my face again. “Then why would you mention it?”
“Because I care about you, Niccolò. And your behavior is concerning. As a mother, I’m allowed to be concerned.” She tilted her head, soft but sharp.
“Never said you couldn’t be,” I muttered, standing up, but she blocked my path like a brick wall in heels.
“I just hope you know what you’re doing. You’ve always been impulsive growing up, but this one has taken the cake, Niccolò. What if she’s just trying to suck you dry? I know she’s beautiful, but a lot of those women come with a price.”
“Mom,” I bit out, the word colder than I meant. I only called her Mom when I was officially over her bullshit. “That girl comes from more money than we could ever imagine. If anything, she’d be worried I’m the one sucking her dry.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Her stepdad is a big-time producer in Hollywood,” and a fucking predator I’d love to drag behind my car until his bones splintered on asphalt.
My mom waved me off like I’d said nothing. “That’s her parents’ money, not hers. And how did she end up here in the first place? Doesn’t make any sense, Niccolò.”
I hesitated. My tongue felt heavy, stuck between honesty and self-preservation. If I told her everything, she’d start asking about Diablo, and I wasn’t ready to open that door. She deserved peace after a lifetime of worry. For once, I wanted her to breathe.
“She originally came here to see Abigail and go on that trip, but when her parents cut her off, she thought she could get a job here to prove to them she could be responsible and stop drinking.”
“So she’s an alcoholic, too?”
I exhaled hard, hands tightening at my sides. “I don’t know.”
“Cosa vuol dire che non lo sai?” Her voice rose, Italian slicing through the room like broken glass—passion or pissed—either way, the 2 P’s meant danger.
“I’m not sure. I think she’s just going through a lot, Mom.”
“And you’re here to pick up the pieces. How convenient. You don’t need any more liabilities, Niccolò. Let’s not forget what you struggled with when you were healing after you got back from Afghanistan.”
I shut my eyes, counting silently to ten. My fists curled. That old itch was back—rage behind my ribs, pressing to break out.
“I know, Mom. And that’s why I can relate. Okay.”
“And what about children?” she fired back. “How can you two bear children if she’s an alcoholic? That’s nine months of being sober, and even after, the middle of the night changes, and cries. You can’t be drunk while taking care of a baby. They are innocent.”
