Page 83 of I'm sorry, Princess
“Listen, man, I gotta go,” I say abruptly, cutting off whatever comment he’s about to make. “See you later.”
I leave before he can reply, stepping out of the club and into the cool night air.
My phone buzzes as I pull it from my pocket, the screen lighting up with a message from Ashley.
Ashley:Bought myself a nice dress. Can’t wait to see it ripped off me. See you tomorrow at 8 p.m. XOXO.
I don’t bother replying.
Sliding the phone back into my pocket, I shake my head and head home, my thoughts heavier than I’d like.
The familiar smell of carbonara hits me the moment I step through the door. My stomach growls in response, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since this morning.
Bianca, my maid, is already in the kitchen. She works quietly, her movements precise as she bakes something in the oven. I head straight to the table and pour myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid burning my throat as I take a sip.
Moments later, she places a plate of carbonara in front of me, the rich aroma making my chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Thank you, Bianca,” I say, my voice quieter than usual.
She nods wordlessly and returns to her baking, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
For a second, I can’t move. My throat tightens as memories of my mother flood back.
The house in Florence always smelled like carbonara. I was five years old, and my favorite thing in the world was helping her cook.
She would laugh when I spilled flour everywhere or sneaked bites of grated cheese.
It’s been years since I let myself think about those moments.
I shove the thought away and pick up my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find her name.
Mother.
I hesitate for a second before pressing “Call.”
The line rings, each tone stretching longer than it should, until finally, she answers.
“Son, I missed you so much!” Her voice is warm, loving, and filled with that familiar softness that always makes me feel like a kid again.
I can tell she’s still under treatment, her voice carries a faint fragility that wasn’t there before.
“How are you doing, Mother?” I ask, my tone steady, masking the weight in my chest as I twirl the pasta on my fork.
It’s always the same. I only call her when I’m eating her favorite dish.
It’s the closest I can get to those moments in Florence.
“I’m okay, I guess,” my mother says softly, her voice carrying the weight of her struggles. “I’m taking the pills, but they make me tired and sleepy all the time.”
There’s a pause, a fragile silence that makes me grip the phone tighter.
“I miss you so much, and your father,” she adds, her voice breaking slightly. “Lorenzo, I’m always dreaming of him.”
Before I can say anything, I hear her start to sob. My heart tightens, a sensation I thought I’d forgotten how to feel.
“He was my whole life, Lorenzo. Ti chiedo perdono… Mi manca da morire.” she continues, slipping into Italian, her emotions overflowing.
When she switches to Italian, I know her heart is breaking all over again.
