Her eyes go soft. Wet at the edges. She reaches up and pats my cheek like I’m still the scared five-year-old kid who used to climb into her bed during thunderstorms.
“You’re such a good boy.”
I almost laugh. She’s the only person on the planet who’d describe me that way. But I keep my mouth shut. She’s too stubborn to hear the truth, and I don’t have the energy to argue with a woman hooked up to an IV drip of poison.
“It’s just such a shame,” she continues, and I already know where this is going. “A man like you, alone. I know you’d take such good care of the right woman.”
My head falls back against the wall. “Not this again.”
“I’m just saying. My new neighbor, Mrs. Carmichael? She has a daughter. Twenty-eight. Lovely girl with black hair and pretty eyes. She teaches kindergarten.”
I stare at the ceiling tiles and count to five.
A kindergarten teacher. That’s who my mother thinks would be a good match for a man who burned a guy alive last month. Sure, he deserved it. Kidnapping Alessio’s woman and his sick kid earned that particular death. But somehow I don’t think someone who teaches finger-painting and alphabet songs would handle that information well.
“Not interested,” I say.
Mom’s face falls, disappointment clouding her features. “I worry about you, Matteo. You’ve never brought anyone home, never even mentioned dating. Don’t you want someone to share your life with? Someone to come home to?”
The words hit me wrong. Too familiar. Too close to something she said once, years ago, when she told me she’d found a man to take care of us.
Someone to share my life with.
Yeah. That worked out great.
I don’t say it. I don’t have to. The shadows that cross her face tell me her mind went to the same place.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say quietly. “I’m fine, Ma.”
“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Her voice cracks at the edges. “If Scott hadn’t been so?—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out harder than I mean it to. But talking about him makes my skin crawl. Makes the old scars on my back ache like fresh burns. “Don’t blame yourself for what that bastard did to you. To us.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. Nods.
We sit in silence for a minute. The IV drips. Someone coughs in the corner. The fluorescent lights keep buzzing.
But her words keep circling in my head.Don’t you want someone to come home to? Someone to share your life with?
She’s going to find out soon enough. About Sierra. About the marriage I’ve proposed. If Sierra agrees to it, that is. And if Ma hears it from someone else, or worse, sees it on social media before I have a chance to explain, she’ll be hurt. She’ll assume I’ve been hiding things from her.
Which I have. But not the way she’d think.
Better to rip off the bandage now, while we’re already knee-deep in uncomfortable territory.
“I need to tell you something.” I keep my voice steady. Neutral. “I’m getting married.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Is that why you’re resisting my matchmaking? You already found someone?”
“It’s not like that.” I choose my words carefully. “I’m marrying someone who can help with my work.”
She knows what I do, even if we can’t talk about it in public.
“Lorenzo chose her for you?” she asks.
“Yes.”
A pause. Her face goes troubled, and I push down the guilt that threatens to creep in, that she won’t get the grandchildren she’s been vocal about wanting.
