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Despite the elegant design, it was unbelievably comfortable and when it slid down and sheathed my body perfectly, I recognized what I’d missed before.
Gabe’s mother had been pregnant when she got married.
Somehow, through some kind of amazingly magical needlework-wizardry, there were extra layers that both hid and molded the fabric around the belly.
I walked out of the bathroom, and when my eyes hit Maria’s, we didn’t need words to communicate.
“I loved Gabe’s father—as much as a woman can love a man. Despite what Fausto said, despite Salvatore Moretti. But our story’s beginning wasn’t so different from yours and Gabe’s.”
She sighed. “My son is his father’s mirror. He might be overprotective, he might be dominant and possessive, but if he truly loves you, he will do so until the end.”
I nodded.
She grinned. “Just remember this after his next fuck-up, and your marriage will be golden.”
“Now, undress again, and let me hide it until the wedding. Oh, by the way, since the wedding is in two days, is there anything you want that we haven’t talked of?”
My family—was my first thought. What wouldn’t I give to have my family with me on my wedding day? To have my father lead me to the altar, but since that wasn’t going to happen, I was happy to go with whatever Maria had planned. “No, I’m good. Thank you so much for organizing everything.”
“That’s what a mother is for, isn’t it?” She winked at me, and at that moment, I was truly happy.
All my life, I’d thought freedom and independence would make me happy. I’d thought I was stuck in a golden cage and only escaping the right bonds of the family would bring me happiness when in truth, it was simply my perspective that made me miserable.
That kept me stuck.
“Thank you so much, Maria.”
She smiled. “Why don’t you call me Mamma, and give me the most beautiful grandchild I could wish for, and we call it even?”
I nodded, tears clogging my throat.
I might’ve lost my freedom, but I’d gained so much love instead.
How could I not be completely, deliriously happy?
CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT
Iwas on my way to the control room when I heard raised voices from the kitchen and took a detour.
“Mom, stop fucking around. Stop avoiding me. And now that he’s dead, you’re the only one who knows the truth. And I have a right to know.”
Alessio’s angry voice caused me to freeze just before entering the kitchen.
What the hell was going on, and why would Alessandro talk to our mother like that?
I stepped forward. “What’s going on?”
Alessandro turned to me, groaned, then hung his head while my mother’s face showed signs of an impending breakdown—nothing I would ever have associated with my mother.
And then I knew.
Now that he’s dead…they were talking about Salvatore Moretti.
Whatever caused the shock I’d seen on Alessio’s face two weeks ago—the news he’d refused to talk about—he wanted some answers.
And I wanted some answers too.
I crossed the room and laid one hand on Alessio’s shoulder, squeezed, then turned my stare on my mother.
