AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"She used to sing it for me. When I was a child."
"Oh?" I gasp. "I didn't know your adoptive mother sang too."
Tatiana looks up with a sudden jerk, her eyes distant, hazy, elsewhere. Then, she shakes her head gently and nods. "She did. That's how I discovered I had a talent. I used to sing with her."
I smile and reach across to touch her hand. "Then wouldn't she wish for you to keep those memories alive? Your voice, I imagine, was her pride and joy."
"It was," she whispers.
Afraid of taking this further, of pushing too much too soon, I take a step back, deciding that the next words will be the last I'd talk of singing. "It was good to hear you sing."
She smiles, sad, troubled. Silent. Tears are flowing.
The music swells around us as I lean across the table to capture her lips in a searing kiss.
I pull back from the kiss, resting my forehead against hers. "I didn't mean to make you cry,piccola."
"Happy tears," Tatiana murmurs. She strokes my cheek, her touch feather-light. "You have given me a precious gift tonight, Philippe. One I will cherish always."
"I'm glad." I press a kiss on her palm. "You deserve all the joy and beauty in the world."
"As do you." Tatiana's eyes soften. "You're a good man, Philippe Accardo. Despite what you and others may think. Despite what Martin thinks."
Her words strike deep, and for a moment, I can't speak. No one has ever seen the good in me, the man behind the mafia boss. No one except Tatiana.
"How do you do that?" I ask hoarsely. "See what no one else does?"
"Because I see you," Tatiana says. "The real you. The man you are under the armor you wear each day. And he is kind, caring, and selfless. Noble, even."
Her words rend my heart wide open, exposing the raw, vulnerable places I keep hidden from the world. I stare at her, tears burning my eyes, overwhelmed by the love and acceptance in her gaze.
"You humble me,piccola," I whisper.
Chapter 30
Tatiana
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, Philippe's question echoing in my mind as he asks if my adoptive mother sang. Why didn't I tell him the truth about my mother's lullaby? That it wasn't the one who raised me but the one who birthed me?
Such a small, tiny, inconsequential little thing I could have cleared up easily, now lingers in my mind. I know Philippe only asked out of care and concern. He wants to know me, all of me. But the pain of losing my mother cuts too deep—both my mothers. I can't bear to examine those wounds. Philippe makes me feel safe like I have a home. I don't want to jeopardize that.
My eyelids grow heavy as I debate what to say come morning. I should tell him something. He deserves that much. I need to find the right words...
I drift asleep. In my dream, I'm awake to a familiar tune. There, sitting at the edge of my bed is my mother. Her long dark hair cascades over her shoulders, just like I remember. She smiles softly as she strokes my hair and sings our lullaby.
I'm frozen in place, willing myself to wake up, wanting this dream to end right here before it turns dark again, tears pooling in my eyes. How I've missed her gentle voice, her soothing touch. It's as if she never left.
The melody ends, and she stands up slowly. Please don't go, I want to cry out, but no words come. She kisses my forehead and heads for the door.
No, please, stay with me! But I remain paralyzed, watching helplessly as she disappears from my dream.
I can feel the darkness pressing in, tears streaming down my cheeks. It’s just a dream. Wake up. Wake up.
This nightmare feels so real, so vivid. Is this truly happening? Could it be more than just a figment of my imagination?
I'm now hiding in the fireplace, my uncle's hand clamped over my mouth, as armed men burst into our home, shouting and screaming as they gun my mother down. Her body crumples to the floor.
My stomach churns with nausea and horror. Smoke lingers in the air. It's hot. It's so hot. I need to wake up.
