“He’s a criminal,” I pointed out, just to make sure she understood the situation completely. “And not some two-bit shoplifter, but a man probably wanted by Interpol and the entire United States government now.”
“Yes,” she said gravely. “This is a problem, but you like problems.”
“I do,” I admitted.
“If anyone can fix this, it is you,” she stated so matter-of-factly it was as if she was reading the constitution, something historical everyone took as absolute. “You will find a way to bring you both home.”
“I’ll try,” I promised.
Until then, I’d been playing catch up. The events of my life in the last few days were shocking and irreversible. I hadn’t gotten around to thinking of the consequences let alone how to rectify them.
“Seamus is dead,” I confessed to her softly.
Without hesitation, she said, “Bene.”
“Really? He was your husband. The father of your children. I hated him, Mama, loathed him, but I’m still disconcerted by his death,” I admitted, though it was a little different for me.
I’d been the one to kill him.
It could have been Dante, but increasingly, I had the feeling he’d only shot Seamus in the face to absolve me of the responsibility for his death.
“Your father was a bad man masquerading as someone good,” she said softly, the words waterlogged with timeless sorrow. “I had a chance once to choose a good man in a bad life and I chose wrongly. I am happy for my daughter that she is not so afraid as I was.”
“Coraggio,” I murmured. “Dante makes me feel brave.”
“As he should,” she declared. “Now, I can sleep well knowing my daughters have found good men.”
I laughed. “Maybe ‘good’ is a loose interpretation. I think Alexander, Daniel, and Dante have all been consider villains at some point in their lives.”
“There is peace in the balance,” she said and I could picture her in Osteria Lombardi rolling pasta dough as she doled out sage advice, at once domestic and eternal, every Italian Mama and their wisdom embodied in her single form. “I think with Dante, you will find your balance too.”
“Ti amo, Mama,” I murmured, cradling the phone as if it was her cheek. “Thank you for always believing in me even when I gave you reason not to.”
“I did not do as I should have and protected you when you were a girl.” Her voice was thick with tears, with a regret that would never die no matter how many times I told her I didn’t blame her. “The least I can do is support you now, lottatrice, and know that you will always make your mama proud.”
My tear ducts stung with tears, but I pressed my index fingers to both to stem the flow. Apparently, falling in love turned me into an unstoppable crying machine.
“Does he know about Christopher?” she asked tentatively.
“No.”
“Lena…you should tell your man. He is not the type to take such a thing well, I think.”
“Exactly, so I am not going to tell him.”
“You and Daniel kept secrets from each other, do not repeat the cycle,” she advised.
My entire body moved with the heaviness of my sigh. “I don’t want him to see me as some victim, Mama.”
“No one, knowing you, could think that. No one loving you would ever entertain that even just for a moment.” When I didn’t respond, it was her turn to sigh. “Okay, ragazza, you do what you feel is right. I send my love to you and to Dante, va bene? When you come home, he comes over for Sunday dinner, si?”
“Si, Mama,” I agreed, suddenly homesick for her like a child taken away to overnight camp. “Ti amo.”
“Sempre,” she murmured back.
Always.
After we hung up, I decided to respond to Beau’s text but left the others, too exhausted to deal with explanations or drama.
Elena: Met D’s Italian family. They greeted us like royalty. It was…odd.
Beau: Damn straight, they did. Queen Elena. Now, that’s a name I could get behind. Do best friends get royal privileges too?
I blinked at the phone, my lonely heart warmed by the reminder that no matter what, even an entire ocean away from them, I still had a few beautiful people who would always have my back.
And when the tears pushed again at my ducts, I didn’t wipe them away.
Seven
Dante
I was in a deep sleep, the kind where dreams are so vivid you can taste them, feel them on your fingertips. In the dream, it was deep night, the shadows thick as spilled ink and Elena was there wearing a traditional Italian lace veil over her head. In the dark, I couldn’t tell if it was the white of a wedding covering or the black of a funeral shroud. I tried to get closer, walking then running and finally sprinting toward her, a portentous feeling crushing my chest. All I knew was that if I didn’t get to her right then, she would die or she would never again be mine to have.