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ONE
ACHILLE
My mother gasped. “Achille, look!”
Her gaze was fixed on something a few tables away. I reached for the Glock under my jacket, but she grabbed my wrist.
“Over there. That little boy!”
I peered over the heads of college kids, spotting a girl a couple tables away. She was pleading with the toddler next to her. She struggled to control him, coaxing food into his mouth, but he dove under the table. As she yanked him out, the cast iron lamp illuminated the toddler. A mop of curly, dark hair framed a round face set into a stubborn pout. She attempted to feed him again, but the kid shook his head. His firm no echoed through the restaurant.
Mom gazed at him with a small smile. “He looks like you did when you were a baby.”
Here we go. I’d rather stab myself with a fork than dive into the topic of babies. I had enough on my plate without her piling onto it, but Mom was the cliché of an overbearing Italian woman. She’d use this as an excuse to pester me about settling down.
“He’s got your eyes, tesoro. And that stubborn chin. Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”
I chuckled. “You’ve been wanting grandkids so bad, you’re seeing me in every kid now?”
Her gaze softened. “She’s so young. Early twenties.”
I glanced at her. “Where’s the father?”
Mom’s brow furrowed. “She’s alone.”
The child wailed. The girl shushed him, dangling a toy in front of him, but the kid wasn’t having it. His little cheeks turned beet-red as he screeched. His fists banged the table. The girl begged, but if anything, he howled louder. She looked on the verge of tears.
Mom clucked her tongue, her gaze following the girl’s every move. “Poor thing. She has no idea how to handle a child. Look at her, she’s just letting him run wild.”
“She’s having a bad day.”
“No, no. There’s a way to do these things. You can’t let them walk all over you. You have to be firm, show them who’s boss.” She leaned back, a reminiscent glint in her eye. “You never threw tantrums like that. I wouldn’t have allowed it.”
“Come on, Ma. That’s not true.”
“It is. You were a good boy and never caused trouble.”
“I was eight and already stealing bicycles from the neighborhood.”
She waved off my confession like swatting a fly. “Bah, that wasn’t on you. Your cousin was a terrible influence.”
I smirked, winding my fork in the noodles. Mom always painted my childhood through rose-colored glasses.
“She needs help,” Mom muttered, her focus on the girl. “A child needs discipline. And the father? Dov’è?”
I shrugged. “Working?”
“On a Sunday? He’s obviously not involved.”
“Not everyone has a perfect family.”
Mom tutted. “Such a shame.”
The toddler stopped crying as the girl pulled out a book with a train on the cover. He reached out for it, but she shook her head and pointed to his plate.
Mom glared at the girl. “And now she’s bribing him.”
“Ma, stop. It’s none of our business.”
