Page 39 of Beg For Me (Morally Gray #3)
“I have no idea, but you don’t have a single wrinkle on your face. What kind of sorcery is that?”
I shrug. “I’ve never smoked, and I wear sunscreen every day.”
From the doorway, a voice says, “And she’s Italian. Good skin runs in the family. I should know, I’m her mother.”
Val and Ev turn to see her standing there, then turn back to me with identical expressions of horror.
I mutter, “Surprise.”
My mother pulls up a chair and sits next to me.
Gesturing impatiently for someone to pour her a glass of wine, she says in a conversational tone, “You should’ve seen my grandmother, Lucia.
What a stunner. She lived to be a hundred and ten and didn’t look a day over seventy.
It’s all that olive oil they eat in Sicily.
Plus the fresh food. No junk food back then. None of this GMO Frankenfood nonsense.”
As my friends are frozen in shock, I pour the wine and hand my mother her glass. She sips from it, smacks her lips, and sighs in satisfaction.
“Hello, girls.”
Blinking in disbelief, Ev says, “Uh. Hello.”
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. Did Sophia tell you I was already dead?”
She turns to Val. “I remember you, Sally. Or was it Annie? Doesn’t matter, the point is that I remember I wasn’t very nice to you that time we met, and I’d like to apologize. It’s bothered me for years. That look on your face.”
She shudders, as if the memory of Val’s pain is offensive, not what caused it. “Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive me. So! What’s new with you two?”
When they stare at me in stunned silence, I say drily, “Yes, it’s a laugh a minute around here. Welcome to the asylum, ladies, where the inmates are in charge.”
Just then, someone knocks on the front door. I practically jump out of my seat, spilling my wine all over my arm.
My mother frowns at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
I glower at her. “It’s probably just a little PTSD from what happened the last time somebody knocked on the door.”
She clucks her tongue. “Don’t be melodramatic, Sophia. It’s unbecoming.”
I rise and head toward the door. Unfortunately, I forget to check the peep hole. Because when I pull the door open, my seething ex-husband stands on my front step.
Before I can say a word, he snaps, “We need to talk.”
Inhaling a calming breath, I pull back my shoulders and meet his angry gaze with a level one of my own. “Go home, Nick. Enjoy your weekend. We’ll talk Monday.”
“You better let me in this fucking house before I call the police and have you arrested for child endangerment.”
“Stop it, Nick. I mean it. Go away.”
I start to close the door, but he flattens his hand against it and gives it such a hard shove, I stumble back and collide with the console. I lose my balance and fall, landing hard on my hip.
Unlike the living room, the foyer isn’t carpeted. Flagstone is about as unyielding a surface as you can get.
Pain shooting through my hip, I stare up at him, stunned, as he looms over me.
“This is my fucking house!” he shouts, spittle flying from his lips. “Everything in it belongs to me, do you understand? It belongs to ME!”
His furious voice rings in my ears. My heart races, my hip throbs, and I can’t catch my breath.
I’m aware of the sudden silence in the living room, of all the kids gaping at us in terror from around the coffee table, and I remember in a flash what Carter said about keeping a record of my interactions with Nick.
Then I wish I had something—anything—to protect myself with because Nick is bending down to me, his teeth bared and his hands balled to fists.
There’s a split second where I think I’m about to be physically harmed by the father of my child before a sharp female voice slices through my frozen disbelief.
“Hey! Coglione! Lay a finger on my daughter, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do!”
My mother stands a few feet behind me, legs spread, expression fierce, eyes black with rage.
In her right hand, she grips a meat cleaver.
When Nick doesn’t move and only stares at her, nostrils flared, she takes a step forward and brandishes the knife. She hisses something in Italian, a true bog witch casting a curse.
I had no idea my mother spoke Italian.
Never once in my life did she mention it, not even when I told her I was learning the language before my honeymoon to Florence.
Heart thudding, I say shakily to Nick, “She says back off or her people will be coming for you.”
He curls his lip. “Your people? Who, Carmelina? The AARP? Fuck you.”
She deftly switches the knife to her left hand, strides over to him, and smacks him clean across his face. All five-foot-nothing of a white-haired old lady, in orthopedic shoes and a beige cardigan sweater, she slaps Nick across the face with such force, his head snaps back.
Holding his cheek, he stares at her in shock.
Lips thinned and eyes narrowed, she raises the cleaver.
He assesses her for a moment, no doubt wondering if she’s bluffing, then decides it’s not worth the risk.
He spins on his heel and walks out.
When his car roars away from the curb, my mother lowers the knife, turns to me, and calmly smiles.
“I think I should stay longer than two weeks. You and Harlow need protection.”