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‘Purportedly, I signed this statement, no? Look at the signature in my passport. Now look at the two signatures and tell me what you see.’
She looked closer. A tingle shot down her spine and a strange buzz started in her head as the pages blurred. Blinking hard, she stared, her eyes darting between the two documents. Slowly, the implications began to sink in.
She raised her gaze to him. ‘Are...are you saying this is not your signature?’
He gave a grim nod. ‘Io sono spiacente.’
It took another few seconds for his meaning to sink in. She flew at him, landing blows everywhere she could reach. ‘You’re sorry?’ she shrieked. ‘For over three years I’ve lived in fear of being hauled off to jail on a whim, lived in fear of losing my child in case I somehow violate the terms of the restraining order...and all you can say is, you’re sorry?’ Tears streamed down her face as her emotions finally burst their bank.
Rocco didn’t move. Not a muscle as her anger and despair ripped free. Finally, overcome by racking sobs, she collapsed against him. Then he caught her to him, holding her in his arms as she shuddered with emotional overload. Through her distress, she heard him murmur soft words in Italian, words meant to soothe, but that only made her cry harder as she continued to slam her fists against his arms, shoulders, anywhere she could reach, until she was drained and wretched.
It was only when her tears lessened to unladylike hiccups, that she heard it. The sound she should have been listening out for. The sound that should have been her first concern in all this madness.
The impatient wail that was Gianni’s waking call.
She wrenched herself out of Rocco’s arms and stumbled backwards. ‘Go. Now!’
‘Cara, you are not in a state to be left—’
‘No, you said you would leave. You promised!’
‘Sì, and I will, when you’ve calmed down.’
Gianni let out another plaintive cry. Torn between going to her son and making sure his father disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived, she paused. And nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell pealed. With a sharp cry, she whirled towards it. The hand that closed over her shoulder stopped her in her tracks.
‘Go and get the boy. I will get the door.’ Rocco’s authoritative voice was couched in helpful charm. As much as she wanted to tell him to go to hell, Gianni’s demand to be let out of his cot was getting to the stage where Mia knew that if she didn’t get upstairs immediately, he’d attempt to climb out himself.
Reluctantly, she nodded, and, swallowing down the last of her hiccups, she headed for the stairs.
‘Mia?’
She turned to find him behind her, pulling out a cotton square from his pocket, which he held out to her. ‘Unless you want to upset our son, I suggest you try and remove some of the evidence of your distress.’
Belatedly, she lifted a hand to her face and realised her cheeks were still wet with her tears, not to mention her runny nose that must make her resemble a wet scarecrow. With a deep flush engulfing her face, she snatched the handkerchief, not bothering to murmur her thanks as she fled up the stairs.
She’d reached the top of the stairs when she heard Mrs Hart greeting Rocco as if they were old friends.
Pursing her lips at the further unwanted intrusion, she hurried down the hall and arrived in time to see Gianni swing one plump leg over the top of the cot, ready to escape his perceived prison.
She
rushed to him and swung him into her arms. ‘No, no, sweetheart. I told you, you mustn’t do that.’
Hiding her face against his chubby neck, she hugged him close to her, all her anger and anxiety draining out of her to be replaced by the rush of love she felt for her little boy.
When he pulled at her hair and repeated her words—‘No, no, tweehar...’—her smile wobbled and she clutched him closer. He protested and began to squirm.
But knowing what faced her downstairs, Mia held on for a moment longer, selfishly basking in her son’s innocence until he wriggled harder, eager to be set free.
‘All right. But you know the drill. First a nappy change. Okay?’
Immediately he shook his head. ‘No nappy.’
Her smile widened. ‘Yes nappy, then you can play with your racing cars.’
It could’ve been the change in his normal routine or the instinctive warning that all was not right with his mother. But far from crowing with joy the way he normally did at the prospect of playing with his beloved racing cars instead of sitting in his high chair in the kitchen for his pre-dinner fruit plate, he regarded his mother solemnly for several seconds with a gaze so shrewd and reminiscent of his father’s, Mia’s heart twisted in pain.
Then a smile broke over his face. ‘Racing car!’
