Page 77 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife
“Well, my little Rosie. I’m glad you’re okay.”
My jaw is on the floor. “Mum. Is… are you…”
A smile breaks across her face then.
“Aye, darling. ‘Tis me.”
I stumble forward and fall into her arms.
When I smell her familiar perfume, violets and vanilla, I start to cry.
I don’t know how long I spend blubbering in that foul alley, wrapped up in my mother’s arms. But by the time I’ve cried everything I have, her hands gently stroking my hair, I feel a thousand years older.
I feel empty.
But mostly I feel…
Confused.
I pull back. “How are you alive?” I whisper.
Sadness tugs at my mum’s face, pulling the corners of her eyes down. Instinctively, I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay. That I can take care of whatever is bothering her.
But, I can’t. I don’t know what’s making her sad. And now that all my tears have left my body, I sense something else, simmering deep underneath all the sorrow and worry I’ve carried for years.
Anger.
“This isn’t a conversation for a place like this,” she murmurs, her eyes darting around the alley. “Come. Bring your young man, and let’s go back to my place.”
I resist the urge to tell her that he’s not mine. Marco and I aren’t beholden to each other, in any way.
Except, apparently, for the fact that we can’t stop kissing each other.
I can’t think about that right now.
If I think about kissing Marco again, I’m going to melt into a puddle of emotions and I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to put myself back together.
You need to stop kissing him.
I’ll figure that out later.
My mum turns, and I look at Marco. His face is tight, a silent question etched into his brown eyes.
Do you trust her?
“I think I do,” I whisper.
His nostrils flare. I can tell he’s about to protest.
I shake my head. “She’s my mum, Marco.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mum stands at the edge of the alley, waiting. I look at Marco. “Kieran… my dad… they did something to her. Or that’s what I thought. It’s why I lived with them. My dad found me, and my mom had to give me to him.”
Marco’s lips thin. “I don’t know.”
“She’s my mum, Marco,” I plead.
