“Yep. Surprised me, too.”
“The fucker’s been slacking lately.”
Elio shrugs. “Probably because he knows the boss man’s too distracted in Atlantic City.” He pats me on the shoulder and nods once, an affirmation. “One night of decent sleep, fratello. That’s all I want for you. Then you can come back tomorrow and be your grumpy, loan sharking self, hm?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. But only because I know you’re going to keep annoying me until I cave.”
Elio beams. “I’m the best, aren’t I?”
* * *
My mother’s been spending a lot more time at my apartment ever since…
Since.
She putters around while I’m busy at work, tidying despite the fact that I have a maid service come through once a week. She’s probably just looking to keep herself occupied, her mind busy. Anything to keep her thoughts off Tommaso. Or, rather, his glaring absence.
I find her in the kitchen, leaning over to check on the lasagna baking in the oven. Three other fully cooked lasagnas are cooling on the marble surface of the kitchen island. She’s clearly been at it for hours.
“Are we expecting guests?” I ask her.
My mother startles but gives a watery laugh when she realizes it’s only me. “Oh, you’re back! I thought you weren’t going to be home until after seven.”
“Needed to check on you.”
She waves her hand dismissively, but her paper-thin smile tells me all I need to know. She looks as exhausted as I feel. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, her hair is a fraying nest of tangles, and I’m fairly certain she’s worn her shirt four days in a row.
“These are for you,” she gestures, trying to sound like her usual upbeat, chipper self. I don’t buy it for a second.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“Nonsense. You don’t eat nearly enough. Look at you, practically skin and bones.”
She’s being overly dramatic. If she thinks my two-hundred and thirty pounds of muscle is skin and bones, I’d hate to imagine how she’d describe herself.
“I really worry about you,” she rambles on. “When was the last time you went grocery shopping?”
“You know I don’t have time to cook.”
“What a terrible excuse! You really should find yourself a wife.”
“We’re not having this conversation again.”
“Dom, you’re over forty now. It’s well past time you find yourself a wife to look after you.”
“If I wanted someone to cook for me, I’d hire a personal chef. A wife is capable of being more than a housekeeper, Mother.”
“And what about children? I’ve been asking for grandchildren for ages.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I already take care of dozens.”
“Those man-babies you call associates are not your flesh and blood, my boy. It’s not the same.”
“We’ve sworn allegiance to one another. It feels the same.”
An awkward silence falls over us. Neither of us knows what to say. There’s a gnawing grief in the center of my chest, eating me alive. All I can do is try to not let it consume me whole. I watch my mother carefully, her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes gloss over with the threat of tears. There’s no doubt in my mind that her anguish is ten times worse. I may have lost my little brother, but she lost her son.
“I should get going,” she whispers.