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“Why not? Fuck them, they never showed you any affection, so at least now their money can help you when you need it the most.”

“Even if I swallow my pride, Vito, I only get access to those funds once I’m married.”

Chapter 3

Corm

An incoming video call vibrates my phone, and I groan. I’m of half a mind to let it ring out.

Taking out a cup, I fill it with coffee and swipe the green button. “Mom.” I set the phone against a fruit bowl on my kitchen island.

She fidgets with the phone, and I wait while I first see a close-up of her finger, then a glimpse of her library, and then her nose. I take a sip, waiting, my lips quirking up.

Every single time she attempts a video call, we go through this.

Finally, she stretches her arm and angles the phone to show her face. Her blonde hair is styled in a low bun at her nape as usual, and she is wearing her reading glasses on a string around her neck. And a kind expression.

I miss her. Fuck.

She marches down the hallway of her home, a woman on a mission. One would think she is a professional influencer with a selfie stick despite the rocky start of every freaking call.

“Thank you for the flowers, Lovie.”

God, I wish she would drop my childhood endearment.

My mother isn’t the only woman who gets flowers from me, but she is the only woman who gets them truly from me. Not from my assistant, Larissa.

Lately, there have been too many bouquets arriving at her house instead of me. I can hear the sadness in her gratitude.

“Sorry, Mom, I couldn’t make it for lunch today. I had work.” I take a generous gulp of my coffee to hide the lie and almost burn my tongue.

“I know, I know. Declan mentioned you have something.”

At least my brother didn’t skip the family lunch. Thank God his little fiends make Mom happy.

When I say nothing, she adds, “When will I see you, Lovie?”

“I’ve been really busy.”

And fucking upset with you for not telling me the truth. And then for telling me the truth.

I recognize the soft decor of her bedroom. A bedroom where I used to snuggle with my parents when I was a boy.

“I know we all grieve differently—”

“I’m not grieving, Mom. I’m upset. I’m angry. I’m disappointed. I’m…”

She sighs. “Look up grief online and confront your feelings, Corm.” She sits at her vanity and positions the phone against something. “You can pretend you don’t love him all you want.” She takes off an earring. “You miss him. I miss him.” She takes off the other earring. “Almost a year ago I lost my husband, but it feels like I lost my son as well.”

She delivers the last words into the mirror, avoiding my eyes. This is not a guilt trip. My mom doesn’t manipulate, but she is no pushover either. Always honest—bar one significant instance—always supportive, always patient.

I put down my mug and brace against the counter, bowing my head. Fuck. The cocktail of my emotions gets a new potent ingredient. Guilt.

“Why don’t we have lunch this week? I’ll have Larissa schedule something. She can get us a table at Casa Cassi.”

I’m not ready to step into my childhood home. It’s full of memories. Full of him. Full of the lies.

Casa Cassi is Mom’s favorite restaurant, and getting a reservation might be impossible on such short notice, but I suggest it anyway. And ignore the edges of my consciousness that are already canceling that plan. The florist will make more money soon.