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“I’d never think that, Rocco,” he assured me. “You’ve been like a son to me, you know.”
I smiled. “I should be so lucky,” I commented.
Enzo snorted. “I wouldn’t say that. You see how my real son turned out,” he said with a grimace.
I didn’t respond, not wanting to talk badly about Ricardo but utterly agreeing. He was only twenty-five, so there was a possibility he’d grow out of it, but I didn’t think so. “He’s still young,” I finally said.
“Takes after his mother,” Enzo grumbled, and I looked up at him, surprised. He usually didn’t talk about Ricardo’s mother.
“Is that so?” I asked.
Enzo groaned, sitting back in his seat. “She was a firecracker,” he admitted. “Wild. I guess I was too, back then. But she didn’t change when she had Ricardo. Not at all.”
“Where is she?” I asked, curious to know more.
Enzo scoffed. “Who the hell knows? Somewhere on the west coast, last I heard. She always had dreams of being a big star.” His tone was bitter. I hummed in response, not wanting to pry. I was interested, though, because Enzo usually didn’t open up about his life. I’d known him since I was sixteen, and this was the first I’d heard about Ricardo’s mother.
“Did you need to talk to me about something?” he asked, and I could see the stress on his face, reddening his cheeks. “Was it about the fundraiser? I just need you to be there to keep an eye on Ricardo. You don’t have to participate. I know you don’t like crowds.”
I looked at him for a long moment, cursing inwardly. I’d forgotten about the damn fundraiser. I hoped he hadn’t invited the Rossis. “No, it’s nothing,capo. Just wanted to apologize.” I knew that no matter what Enzo did, Ricardo would do whatever he wanted. And in the end, Allegra would be the one to get hurt. I had to do this job, and it would be easier if Enzo didn’t know about it.
“You’re good, Rocco. No need to apologize to me. Not after what you’ve done for my son.”
“I did it for you,” I said softly, wanting him to understand that.
Enzo smiled at me. “I know, and I’m grateful.” He paused. “Do you need any money? I know those clubs can be expensive,” he said, almost in a teasing tone.
I started to shake my head but then realized I’d be out of town for a couple of weeks and nodded. “Just some running-around money.”
Enzo stood up and crouched down beside his desk to put the code into the safe in the floor, opening it up and throwing me a stack of hundreds. There was probably twenty grand there, and I didn’t complain. “Thank you, Enzo,” I said honestly.
Enzo waved his hand again in dismissal. “Thanks for getting Ricardo home safe,” he said, and I felt a pang of guilt at the fact that I was the one who had urged him to leave and go to the club.
“You’re welcome,” I muttered, and got up to leave his office.
“Rocco?” Enzo called, and I turned. “How are you feeling, now that you’re back home?” he asked gently, as if he knew I’d been having a hard go of it.
I swallowed hard. “Fine,” I lied. “Everything’s fine,capo.” The lie burned in my throat as I ascended the stairs.
5
ALLEGRA
The next evening, Matteo was asking a million questions about his father and I was about to lose my patience. “We’ll talk about it later,” I kept saying.
Then he’d huff out a breath. “You always say that. When is later?” he demanded to know.
I turned and sighed. “When you’re old enough,” I said. “When you’re bigger and more capable of understanding things.”
“I understand things,” he complained, on the verge of tears. “I know lots of things, Mama, but I don’t know who my papa is!”
Guilt shot through me. I couldn’t understand what it was like for Matteo. My father had always been in my life, always been there for me, and here I was, keeping his father from him. “I can’t tell you his name,” I said, and Matteo’s lip trembled as I crouched down and put my hands on his shoulders. “But I can tell you that he loved you very much.”
“How do you know?” he asked in a whisper. “How do you know if he loved me?”
Tears burned at the backs of my eyes. “Because anyone would love you, Matteo,” I said, and my son hugged me tightly. I wished I could pick him up again, take him to the rocking chair in the old nursery and sing him to sleep. But he was big, like his father, nearly five foot tall already and weighing almost a hundred pounds. So instead, I took his hand, led him up the stairs to his room where I put him to bed.
He asked for a story and I began to make one up, just how he liked, featuring a little prince, but Matteo shook his head. “I want a story about my Papa,” he said.
