“That’s more accurate.”
She smiles.
For a few minutes, we sit in the softened quiet while Erin whispers through a picture book and Heath drifts in and out of sleep. Dolores watches them with a face that reveals too much and not enough.
“You are good with them,” she says.
“I’m trying.”
“That is not what I said.”
I wrap both hands around the coffee cup. “Trying is all I have right now.”
“Then try loudly when needed and gently when not.”
“That sounds like a philosophy.”
“It is experience.”
I glance toward the doorway where Omar stands. “You raised Stefano?”
Omar’s eyes flick toward us.
Dolores doesn't look at him. “Omar, go intimidate the hallway.”
He stiffens. “I am assigned?—”
“Then assign yourself six feet farther away.”
For one incredible second, I think Omar might argue.
He doesn't.
He steps into the hall.
I stare after him. “I am in awe.”
“You should be. He was a terrible child.”
“Omar?”
“Still is.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Dolores’ smile softens, then fades as her gaze shifts toward the hall Stefano used. “I didn't raise Stefano. Not as much as I wanted to.”
That lands more heavily than I expect.
I say nothing.
She looks down into her coffee. “Men in families like these aren’t raised. They are sharpened. Some are sharpened into useful blades. Some break. Some become exactly like the hand holding them.”
“And Stefano?”
Her mouth presses together.
Not displeasure.
