Page 53 of Ace of Hearts

Levi

August

Saint Petersburg, Russia

I’m a bag of nerves.

Stupid, isn’t it? This isn’t a job interview, or a first date. I’m just going to collect my mother from prison. Nothing scary. And yet my hands are sweating in the taxi. There’s a bouquet of flowers on the empty seat next to me; peonies, her favorite.

The moment I’ve been anticipating for ten years has finally come, and the truth is I’m terrified. My mother knew me as a teenager, but she knows nothing about the adult I am now, except what I allow her to see on my monthly visits.

What if the reality disappoints her, and she doesn’t like the man I’ve become? I’m already worried about how she’ll react when I tell her I play poker—that I’m the world champion, in fact. And that I’ve fallen madly in love with the daughter of the man who stole my father from us.

Shit, now I’m panicking again.

I’m not the only person waiting outside the prison. I guess they’re freeing more than one prisoner today. I tell the taxi driver to park and wait; then I get out, flowers in hand. I check my clothes one last time: white trousers and T-shirt—nothing controversial, nothing that screams reprobate .

My phone vibrates, and I see a message from Rose that makes me smile.

Good Luck Today !

She remembered.

It’s been a month since we parted. To tell the truth, the first couple of days were fine. It didn’t seem real yet, and I still felt like I’d see her again the next day. Then, after the realization really hit me ... it was as though I’d fallen down a hole. I miss her way too much.

I’ve never had emotions like this before. Seriously, I embarrass myself. But I don’t question her choice; I know she needed to go back to Italy, back to her roots, her mother, and a stable, loving home.

Over the last few weeks, the Rasputin’s taken up most of my time. I’ve started the process of selling it and of sorting out my finances so that I can leave.

I finally feel as though I’m moving in the right direction. I still find it hard to believe the rivalry between Tito and me is over. I almost expect him to knock on my door and challenge me to a duel one of these days.

The nightmares haven’t stopped, and now I haven’t got Rose to calm me down. But I often call her in the middle of the night, and she always answers. She tells me all about her day, and I soon relax. We spend hours making completely crazy plans for our future together.

My phone bill’s never been so high.

By the way, have you planned what you’ll say after she reads in the paper that her son’s engaged to a pregnant former stripper?

First of all, nobody heard your little tirade that night, thank God. And no ... I haven’t thought what to say about you—and about us.

You’d better start thinking, then.

But it’s too late for that now, because the prison doors are opening, and my heart is going crazy. I put my phone in my pocket and clutch the bouquet, taking deep breaths in an unsuccessful attempt to slow my heartbeat. I’m like a kid with stage fright.

I’m almost afraid I won’t recognize her. A stupid thought because I saw her just four months ago, and she always looks the same. My chest tightens when I finally catch sight of her.

My mother stops just outside the door and looks up to the sky, her arms hanging by her sides. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, and she’s holding a cloth bag that must contain all her possessions. She looks a little lost. I don’t approach her right away.

I’d rather wait for her to come to me. I want to give her time alone to take in her freedom, the fresh air, the landscape. After what seems like an eternity, she glances around, looking for me.

When she sees me, I freeze like a child who’s been caught stealing sweets. She walks toward me, smiling, and opens her arms. My response is immediate: I burst into tears. I cry silently as the distance between us shrinks, then pull her into an embrace.

I haven’t held my mother in my arms in ten years.

Not since that fatal day when I wouldn’t let her go, and she smiled and said everything would be all right.

A whirlwind of emotions tears through me, good and bad.

It’s like I’m a teenager again, and not a grown-up with a terrible thirst for revenge.

“Mom,” I sob. “I’m sorry ... I’m sorry.”

She holds me tight, despite the vast difference in our heights, and strokes my hair just like Rose did. I hide my face in her hair, overcome.

“You’re so tall ... and handsome!”

Of course, that’s the first thing she finds to say to me. I smile even as I’m crying. When I draw back, she wipes away my tears, not bothering with her own, and takes my bouquet.

“Oh, they smell incredible.”

I look her over carefully, resisting the temptation to comment on her pale skin, her sunken cheeks, and thin arms. Whatever she’s gone through in there, it’s over now.

For good. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for having put her in that situation, even though she always says it was her fault, not mine.

I ask how she’s doing, and we exchange a few banalities.

The whole thing feels totally surreal. I don’t think I’ve come to terms with it yet: it’s like I’m just picking her up at the station after a long journey.

I’m almost afraid they’ll come and take her away again, saying there’s been some mistake.

I suggest we leave right away, so we go back to the taxi, and I give the driver the address of a restaurant nearby.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask shyly. “Something you’ve been wanting for years, something you haven’t had for ages.”

She doesn’t hesitate; she’s clearly been planning this moment.

“A burger and fries.”

I can’t help laughing in surprise. It’s so ... ordinary.

“Perfect. Then let’s go.”

Our plan is to live together for a little while, for as long as she wants, or at least until she’s sick of me.

We know she’ll be monitored for a while, so we can’t leave the country just yet.

But it’s only a short delay. We’ve got lots to talk about, lots to catch up on, lots to learn about each other.

“Can we ... can we take a selfie together?” I ask when we arrive at the restaurant. “To send to my friends.”

“A what?” asks my mother, smiling.

I explain what that is, and she agrees, tidying her hair. My mother always looks very well put together. I bet that was true even in prison.

We take a photo at the table, with our burgers, and I send it to the WhatsApp group “Ocean’s Eleven”—the group name chosen by Rose, naturally.

“What are your friends like?”

My mother picks up her burger in both hands and takes a huge bite, closing her eyes to savor it. I’ve never seen so much pleasure on someone’s face.

It makes me sad and happy at the same time.

“Strange, but amazing. Tommy works as a bodyguard in Sweden and the US. Li Mei runs the Chinese Rasputin. Lucky’s studying architecture in Los Angeles, and Rose .

.. Rose studies psychology. She models for art students, and paints.

She’s wonderful. And very intelligent too.

But I don’t tell her that because her ego’s strong enough as it is. ”

I stop talking, realizing she’s watching me in silence, a gentle smile on her lips. I ask if I said something funny, but she shakes her head.

“My son is a man now; that’s all. It’s strange.”

“OK . . .”

“Does she live nearby, this Rose?”

I pick up a fry to hide my feelings. “Not really, no.”

“I see ... How did you meet?”

This is it. She’s given me the perfect chance to tell her everything. The poker, Tito, Rose, my victory. She’ll know it all soon enough anyway, and I’d rather she heard it from me.

“Mom ... I have something to tell you. Please don’t be angry.”

“If you tell me you’re married with two kids, I warn you I might have a heart attack.”

No, just a sham engagement .

“It’s nothing like that,” I say. “The thing is, I’ve hidden this from you, but ... I’m a professional poker player.”

My heart misses a few beats as I wait for her reaction. She raises her eyebrows in surprise and purses her lips. Not a good sign. Before she can say anything, I tell her about wanting to beat Tito.

She tries to interrupt, her cheeks red with anger, but I press on. I skip over the most sordid details, like Rose’s spying on me and my role in Tito’s arrest. She listens but won’t look me in the eye.

“But it’s over now,” I say. “I did it to prove I could. To take revenge. And because I wanted money, to be honest.”

“So that explains your mafia tattoos,” she mutters. “I don’t like them.”

I smile and blush in embarrassment. “That’s one of the reasons I got them, yes. But please believe me: poker’s behind me now. Behind us .”

“I don’t want you to end up like him,” she says, her voice beseeching. “I know you’re not your father, and I might be being unfair, but I just ...”

“I know, I know,” I say, putting my hand on hers. “I feel the same way.”

My mother nods, calmer now, and wipes her eyes. She says she wants to get to know everything about my life, including whatever else I’m hiding from her. She didn’t react much to the fact that Rose is Tito’s daughter. When she asks if I plan to see Rose again, I nod.

“That’s part of my plan, yes.”

“In that case, you need to do things properly,” she insists. “And I need to meet her. Does she speak Russian?”

I grimace. The few words I’ve managed to teach Rose won’t be much use in a conversation with my mother.

“About as well as I speak Italian, I guess.”

She asks more questions about my pretend fiancée, and we spend the next two hours talking about everything and nothing; about my life, my work, my love life. And then about her plans for the future.

Before she went to prison, my mother worked as a nanny. When I ask if she wants to go back to doing that, she suddenly looks sad.

“No parent will want to trust a former convict with their child. And they’d be right not to.”

There’s nothing I can say to that. She’s right. I know my mother would never hurt a fly, but they don’t. I wouldn’t leave my baby with someone I wasn’t sure I could trust either.

I ask her what she’d like to do instead. “Tell me your dreams, even the craziest ones, and I’ll make them come true.”

She laughs, clearly not believing a word. I tell her I mean it.

“Mom, the only reason I’ve worked to get all this money is so I can spend it on you.

I know it’ll be hard for you to get back to normal life, but we’ll manage it.

You love cooking! Why not open a little restaurant?

Or maybe you’d rather travel? You don’t have to work.

You can do whatever you like. Go and bask on a beach in the Maldives, cocktail in hand; get yourself a massage . .. You’d love it there.”

“Slow down, slow down,” she interrupts, looking overwhelmed. “That’s ... too much all at once. I have no idea what I want to do yet, other than sleep in a soft, warm bed.”

“Sorry ... I’m just a bit excited.”

“I know. Me too.”

I smile at her and try to rein myself in. We don’t say anything while I finish my meal. I know she’s watching me, but I let her do it without saying anything.

Abruptly, she says, “Do you still not sleep well? You have bags under your eyes.”

I shake my head, not looking up. She asks if I’m still seeing the psychologist her brother recommended. I tell her I stopped a few months ago. Silence falls again, and this time it lasts longer. I look at her empty plate: she devoured her food in an instant.

I suddenly want to cry again. She must notice this, because she leans toward me and takes my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her.

“Levi, my darling. You have to stop,” she whispers.

“You have to stop blaming yourself. About your father, and about me. It was an accident. Do you hear me? You defended yourself. You defended me. That doesn’t make you a bad person.

” I want to pull away, but she insists, “Going to prison was the best decision I ever made.”

“I should have paid for my mistake. It was my responsibility.”

“You were a child!” she retorts in a low voice, not letting me continue.

“Having to live with this for the rest of your life is punishment enough if you ask me. You’ll understand when you have a child of your own .

.. You’ll understand that no mother could let her baby go to prison if she had the power to stop it.

It’s in the past now. We’re together again.

I don’t want to discuss it anymore, OK?”

I nod, and she caresses my cheek and gives me another smile. After a few seconds’ silence, she says, “Actually, I do like the idea of traveling a little.”

That’s enough to get me smiling again. I suggest we leave in a few months. I say we can go anywhere, as long as it’s warm and beautiful. She suggests South America and Australia. I can picture it already. There’s just one tiny detail ...

“Would you mind if someone else joins us?”

I know she’s guessed what I mean, but she acts like she has no idea. “Not at all.”

“Great. That means we’ll need to make a little detour through Venice, OK?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Venice? Why Venice?”

I smile mysteriously, unable to hide my happiness.

“I left something very important there.”