Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“Here’s the deal, Mom. If you go back to the center and prove that you can stay sober and clean, we can discuss your living arrangements. Until then, you’re on your own. It’s your choice.”
Livy makes a sound of agreement.
“Fucking lethal,” my mom says, placing a palm on her heart. “You cut me to the bone, baby. I swear to God, you know how to bleed me.”
“That’s my offer.” I cross my arms. “Take it or leave it.”
“That’s low,” she says, looking wounded. “Fucking low.”
“I’ll pay for another week at the center. If you haven’t returned there when that time is up, I’ll tell them they can give your place to someone else. And then you can forget about asking me for help again.”
“Jeez,” she says, taking a step back. “Never thought you could be so cruel.”
“Think it over,” I say, closing the door in her face.
Livy looks at me with pride. “You did the right thing.”
Maybe, but it doesn’t hurt less. Turning my own mother away is one of the most difficult things I’ve done.
“Do you think she’ll go back?” I ask, uncertainty gnawing at me. Because if something happens to her, I’ll never stop blaming myself.
“Who knows?” Livy sighs. “Whatever she decides, it’s out of your hands. You’ve done as much as you could.” Her voice turns wary. “One thing is for sure. If she does come back to live with you, none of us will sleep easy.”
“Oh, she won’t be living here. If her psychologist deems her in a healthy enough state of mind to leave the center, I’ll get her a place of her own. If she doesn’t want to stay alone, I’ll move her into a retirement village where she’ll be between people of her age.”
“I’m glad you’re thinking straight. You don’t need this on top of everything else that’s happening.”
Livy is right. As usual, my mom is making a mess of things, and the timing couldn’t be worse.
Blowing out a long breath, I get my phone to inform my mom’s psychologist of the turn of events.
Chapter
Nine
Saverio
* * *
My wife has a warped sense of duty. She sits at my bedside no matter how long I ignore her, sponging down my arms and showing me photos of Claire as payment for saving her life.
When she wrings out the sponge and brings it back to the skin of my elbow, I catch her wrist. “You don’t have to do this. There are nurses for that.”
A pained look crosses her features, but she quickly wipes it away. “We’ve been through this. I’m your wife. In sickness and in health, remember?”
“I never meant those vows.”
She stares at me as if I’ve slapped her.
“I never meant to burden you with my care,” I elaborate.
“No.” She drops the sponge in the bowl. It hits the soapy water with a splash, sending drops over the rim onto the nightstand. “What did you want? To die?”
There’s a knock on the door. Before I have time to answer, Rachele steps inside, carrying a huge fruit basket in her arms.
Anya stiffens.
Great fucking timing, Rachele.
“Sav,” Rachele says, my name lost in the sob that catches in her throat. She puts the monstrous basket on the trolley at the foot-end of the bed. “Oh my God.” Her bottom lip trembles. “They’re gone, just gone.”
She wears a black dress that reaches mid-thigh. Her lips are painted with her signature red lipstick, but despite her perfect make-up, signs of grief are visible on her face. Her skin is pale, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, narrowing my good eye.
“The guys outside know me,” she says. “I’m still Mrs. De Luca, you know.”
I need to have a fucking word with those men. My orders were clear. No visitors other than Dante.
Sniffing, Rachele glances at Anya. “I still can’t believe it.”
My sigh is weary. “What are you doing here, Rachele?”
“I came to tell you the funeral is tomorrow.” She shrugs. “I wanted to see for myself that you’re okay.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Anya says. “I can’t imagine how difficult it is for you.”
“Don’t bother to come to the funeral,” Rachele tells Anya. “You’re still recovering.”
Meaning Rachele doesn’t want Anya there. I wouldn’t let her go alone anyway.
Rachele addresses me. “I saw Elena. My God, she looks miserable. She didn’t know what Raphael was planning. I swear it.”
My smile is cold. “So it’s confirmed then. He did it. Did Elena confess that to you?”
“No,” Rachele cries out, moving to the side of the bed. “Of course not.”
I turn my face to have a visual on her, which means I can no longer see Anya on the other side of the bed. I hate it, hate that I don’t have a peripheral vision on my right side, hate that I can’t measure Anya’s reaction. I’ve never liked not knowing what’s going on in her head.