We were raised by a devil and nurtured by an angel. My wily mother is silently shrewd, with the heart of an untamed lioness. Tonight, she’s the widow of a madman who karma caught up with no matter how many precautions he took.
The two of us sit on the fountain ledge, her washing my hands with gentle strokes, and me observing the waterlilies so my focus is elsewhere. Only when the blood vanishes does she speak again.
“Who is she, Tommy?”
“No one to worry about,” I reply curtly, flicking droplets off my hands and rising. We both know I need to dry them and drink a Scotch to take the edge off my viperish mood. “I’m using her. She’ll be out of my life in a few days.”
“Oh, I’m not worried.” She gracefully glides beside me as we return indoors to the warm orangery. “I’m shocked. That little display of affection was rather... heart-melting.” I step over a fallen potted plant, hunt out a napkin, and guide her through the carnage my brother and I created.
She stops beside the antique, hand carved liquor table with ugly claw feet, instinctively knowing I’ll reach for the Waterford Irish Lace design tumblers that my grandfather, Don Hennessey, last sipped from when he visited a few years ago. He didn’t feel the need to show up at the isolated plantation often when my mother rarely graced the hallways.
“That young girl did something none of us could ever do. Not even the highest paid psychiatrist. Perhaps it's you who should be worried, son.”
I tug at the neck of my t-shirt, feeling claustrophobic by her inference, and irritated by the disorder around us. Either way, I need a large shot of Scotch and a tidy room to relax in. Nausea burns in my stomach and frustration stings in the form of regret.
Out of all my brothers, André and I are the closest. His twin, Giovanni, keeps to himself and Matheus will always be the younger brother I feel responsible for, like the father he never really had.
“I’ll admit the girl has the ability to reach parts of me no one has ever found.” I fill the duo of glasses halfway and serve her first. “But she’s temporary.”
“Oh?” She accepts the liquor with diamond-clad fingers and waits for me to raise my glass to hers. “Salud, my dear boy.”
“Salud, mama.” I nod, tip my head, and swallow the whole measure.
“Temporary you say?” Her fluffy brow hitches as she sips with feminine decorum.
Filling my glass for the second time, I feel my chest tighten like an odd sensation of anger woven with sorrow.
“After we leave here, I’ll pay the woman and drop her in the city where I found her. We have an agreement. I know her weaknesses and I’ll use them against her if she snitches.”
“So you're still going ahead with the wedding to the Mexican girl?” she asks, blinking up at me, her tone impossible to decipher.
“I guess so,” I agree vaguely. “This way, we prevent an unnecessary war with our allies. Plus, I'd gain a better hold on the Morales cartel.”
She hums to herself and walks away, her heeled slippers clipping the tiled floor. “Bianca Morales was raised with cartel beliefs and standards. She understands the importance of our family dynamics. That dainty little bird upstairs would find herself in a gilded cage for the rest of her days with a price on her head.” Looking back at me, she narrows her eyes. “If anyone sees the effect she has on the heir to the Souza organization, to the new leader, she’d be an instant target. She’d become your real weakness, Tommy. Collateral damage.” Her voice lowers with the accusation as if it pains her to point out the truth. “Bianca is the right choice foryouin the long term.”
I don't respond. Not out of disrespect for her observation. I just don’t have the mental clarity to agree.
“What age is Carina?” she asks, her brow creased in thought.
“Nineteen.”
“She’s still a child.” Mother sighs wistfully and toes a broken lamp out of her path. “A good-looking girl like her will land on her feet. She’ll find herself a reliable man with a normal life.”
My hackles rise. I think of Carina and how she considers being normal as the magic key to fit into society. How she feels like the deformed jigsaw piece to a beautiful puzzle. She’s endured the world at its cruelest and still puts up a fight to survive.
The woman has been to Hell and wears the scars to prove it. Those big amber eyes of hers see right into my troubled mind and render me unworthy, no matter the status I hold.
Fuck normal.
And fuck the boring asshole who tries to tame her wild side.
As if reading my inner dialogue, mother’s reasoning returns. “Or you could take her as a mistress? To the world, Bianca Morales would be your cartel worthy wife, and Carina would be your dirty little secret that no one could ever find out about.”
I shoot her an unamused glare. “She deserves better than that.”
She chuckles, her shiny black nails filed like talons press over her Irish heart. “I know, my love. I’m playing devil's advocate. She’s not afraid of you. Either she’s dangerously naïve
or she feels something... for you.”