Page 101 of Out of Control

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m proud of you, Oliver. I’m proud of the kid you were, how you stood up for yourself when I didn’t. Of the teenage kid who took my badgering to focus on something else you were talented at. Of the man you’ve become, and how you’ve handled all the past years have thrown at you.”

I hear his words. I feel them. But . . . “You haven’t been here. You always have an excuse. How—fuck.” I hate when my voice breaks. Even worse, I hate the tears that burn in my eyes.

“You’re right.” He starts to get up to move toward me but then stops himself. And I’m not sure that I want him to stop, but I’m also not sure that I want him not to. Everyone needs their parents, but I’ve felt alone for so long—alone despite their phone calls and supportive texts—that I’m not sure what it is I want. “There is no excuse for my absence other than to tell you that I keep working, just in case. Just in case this racing thing fails. Just in case my income is needed. Just so that you never feel that I’m a burden to you like I felt my mamma was to me. That’s not the place of a child. The place of a child is to spread their wings and soar. It’s to surpass everything you’ve ever done as an adult. It’s not to ever worry about paying for their parents because their parents are self-sufficient.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

“For years I thought it was me,” I whisper. “I thought you were embarrassed of me. What I’d done. The financial hardship I’d put you through. All of that. And then I succeeded. Then I made it to the fucking top and you still didn’t come and, I assumed . . .” I swallow over the broken emotion that feels like shards of glass in my throat. Over the years of doubt and the months of loneliness. “I assumed I still wasn’t good enough for you.”

“No, Oliver. No.” He moves to me now. He sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of me and pats me gruffly on the knee. “It was never about you. It was about me. And I thought I was doing right by you. I thought the less pressure you had from me—being there, supporting us, I don’t know—that it would be easier for you. But when you called, when you told me you couldn’t even fight me face to face, I realized just how bad I had failed you. Even without knowing the why, I know I failed you.”

I close my eyes and inhale a shaky breath. He thinks he failed . . . me? “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” His smile is hesitant. Reticent. “And I don’t expect forgiveness. I just hope that you can hear what I’ve told you. Look at it all for yourself and then maybe find it in you to let us rebuild this relationship. Not right away, of course, but maybe, in time.”

So many emotions I never expected when I answered the unexpected knock at my door—anger, surprise, longing, loneliness, love—war within me. The little boy needs this more than he could ever know while the grown man in me is more cautious with my emotions.

I meet his eyes. They’re still full of kindness, still the man who pushed me into this career, which clearly, I’m positively grateful for.

“So I guess this racing thing wasn’t such a bad idea,” I say, uncertain how to proceed. His smile is a slow, hesitant crawl across his lips.

“I’d say.”

“I’d like to work on us, Babbo. I appreciate you coming here to talk face to face. I know it’s hard for a man to admit he’s done wrong by someone. But I’d like to try.”

“That’s more than I could ever ask for.” Tears well in his eyes. “Thank you.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Sofia

“Ollie. I really don’t have the time—”

His lips meet mine in a searing kiss, cutting my words off. “You have time for this. I’m making you make time for this.” He links his fingers with mine. “We deserve a break and . . . I have a surprise for you.”

I chuckle nervously. “And I’ve played along, but a girl can only have so much mystery before she starts asking questions.”

He tucks a tendril of hair behind my ear, his fingers so gentle for a man so many others see as gruff. “Let me do this for you. Let me take care of you tonight. Let me surprise you. Please.”

I lean forward and press my lips to his. It’s when I’m here, when the focus of my world narrows to just him, that I feel the most at peace these days.

And the least alone.

I think the feeling is mutual though. There’s a lighter air to Rossi these days. I’d like to think I have some part in that, but I sense it’s the open dialogue that is happening between him and his parents that is at its heart.

While that whole visit from his father came out of the blue and knocked him astride for a few days, I’m so very proud of him for listening instead of reacting. For contemplating instead of shutting it down. For revisiting old memories to look at them with new eyes instead of relying on decade-old ones.

So when Rossi told me to get ready, I assumed it was because he wanted to celebrate an all-around incredible and transformative few weeks. The gallery for me. Working on things with his parents for him. Our relationship getting better and stronger with each passing day.

What I didn’t expect was the short jet ride to Rome or the private car meeting us to whisk us away somewhere private.

Let’s hope I dressed right for what he has in store for us.

“I don’t need fancy date nights, Ollie.”

“I know you don’t, which is why it’s that much more important that I do this. That I show you what you mean to me.”

And when the car turns the corner and pulls up in front of a nondescript building, one that I know to be one of the biggest private galleries in Europe, I gasp.