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“Isn’t it? He looks a lot like you.”
I put down my fork, sighing. “And?”
“And you’re being defensive about her situation. Caro, is there anything you need to tell me?”
“Seriously, Ma? You think that’s my kid?”
“Are you telling me he’s not?” Her mouth thinned as I barked out a laugh. “Well, you’re not getting any younger, and you’ve always been secretive.”
“I’m private, there’s a difference.”
Her attention wandered back to the child. “The resemblance is too strong. I’ll prove it to you.”
I inwardly groaned as Mom whipped out her phone, scrolling through an album of old photos. She clicked on a picture of me—I must’ve been about three—on a beach. I enlarged my face, studying the pixelated edges, and compared it to the boy in front of us.
Whoa.
I stared at the photo and at the boy. His features mirrored my baby photo. Everything from his hairline, the shape of his eyes, to the cleft in his chin. The girl, totally unfamiliar.
Mom leaned over, hissing. “Invite her over.”
“What for?”
“To find out if he’s your son, you baccalà!”
I waved her off. “It’s a coincidence.”
Mom pursed her lips. The crazy gleam in her eye said she was seconds from making a scene. I grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard.
“Ma, I’ve never seen her in my life.”
“Are you sure?”
Doubt swirled in my head. She had me there. The girl could’ve been a late-night drunken mistake that I shoved out of my mind. Not likely, but possible.
Mothers were less inclined to forget the man who knocked them up. If I introduced myself and she showed no reaction, there was no chance. And if he was mine? He wasn’t. This was stupid.
I stabbed into my Hong Kong–style noodles. “Since when did you start matchmaking me with single moms?”
The idea was ludicrous, yet she looked at me as if she’d just concocted the perfect plan. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to think about someone else for a change. It’s time you had more in your life than business.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to her.”
Mom would never let this go, and it was better to indulge than argue with her. Talking to a girl for a few minutes wouldn’t kill me.
I signaled for the waiter.
“I’m covering that girl’s tab.” I pointed her out, slipping my credit card in his hand. “Tell her who it’s from, and send her an order of potstickers.”
“Of course, sir.”
The waiter whisked away to do my bidding.
I turned back toward my plate. I loved Chinese food. The aromatic spices, the perfect balance of flavors, and the sheer variety of dishes always hit the spot. Mom knew this. It had become our little tradition. Once a week, we grabbed lunch here.
Technically, this was work. The owner had hired the Family’s services for protection. The restaurant, and many other small businesses, had been dealing with a rash of break-ins. Mostly young kids in street gangs. I’d asked around and found the ringleader. Invited him for some Hong Kong–style noodles and cracked his arm on the table closest to the ornamental fish tank. Large orange fish had scattered when I dunked his head in the aquarium. Made a mess, but the owners offered me a deal anytime I came in. Never needed to ask for extra chili oil again.
But it was like whack-a-mole. With Legion MC eliminated, territory in Chelsea was up for grabs, and every two-bit drug dealer wanted a taste. I’d introduced myself to local businesses. They needed to associate us with order, but anyone could see that we’d destabilized Boston. Our grasp on the city had slipped, and the Family was stretched too thin. Every street we took was another redline on the tachometer, pushing our control to the brink. Everybody was pissed off and overworked, including me.
