Page 119 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“Love is always simple. It’s everything else that’s complicated.”

I looked at her, this woman who’d always been my compass, and wondered if maybe her perspective wasn’t quite right this time. After all, she’d fallen in love with a literal mobster. And she was my mother. She had to try and convince me I was good enough.

She must have sensed my thoughts because she reached across the table and took my hand.

“I adored your father,” she said quietly. “And I went into my marriage with him with my eyes wide open. I knew who he was. I knew what was at stake. I knew…” She trailed off, looking out at the street.

“Knew what?”

She turned back to me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I knew I would bring children into a life they didn’t choose,” she said, reaching up to stroke my cheek. “You paid the price of your mother loving a bad man. I’m sorry for that. But I need you to know, I did love him. Dearly. With everything I had. And then you were born, and as soon as you picked up a wooden spoon in this very kitchen, I saw a chance to pour all of me into you. Not him. Your father did bad things, but he is not a bad man. You are not a bad man. I think I get to have an opinion. I know bad men. That is not you.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I see him when I look into your eyes,” she continued, “but I feel our heritage when you share your heart with me. You are a good man, Raffaele Voscari. Never doubt that.”

I had always put my mother on a pedestal. She was my hero. Most little boys look up to their fathers. They want to be like their dads. Not me. I wanted to be like my mom. She was always so strong. So resilient. Talking to her like this and seeing her vulnerability, her regrets, her fierce love made me respect her more. She was an incredibly strong woman who had made impossible choices and somehow raised me to be better than the world she’d been born into.

To me, she was a hero. I didn’t know how she managed to keep me out of the life. I knew there had to be a lot of pressure on her from the family and other members of the organization. I never felt any of that pressure.

Because she stood in front of me. She protected me. My mother had encouraged me to do whatever I wanted.

Damn. She really was a superhero.

“Thank God you were a good cook,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Unlike Auntie Luciana. If she’d been my mother, I’d be just like the rest of them.”

Mama laughed. “Auntie Luciana can’t boil water without burning it.”

We both chuckled, and for a moment it felt like old times, just mother and son, sharing a meal and easy conversation.

“Thank you for listening,” I said. “I needed this.”

She squeezed my hand. “You know, I know another good listener who would love the chance to hear all about your life. Someone who misses you dearly.”

I stiffened. “Mama.”

“When was the last time you visited your father?”

“You know when.”

“Six months ago. For fifteen minutes. That’s not a visit, that’s an obligation.”

I pulled my hand away. “He made his choices.”

“And you’re making yours. But son, holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

I stared down at my plate, not wanting to have this conversation. But my mother had a way of pushing exactly the buttons that needed pushing.

“He’s still your father,” she said gently. “And despite everything, he loves you. He’s proud of what you’ve become.”

“Proud that I rejected everything he stood for?”

“Proud that you became everything he couldn’t. Proud that you had the courage to do what no one else has. And you did it right. You did it with respect. You didn’t turn your back on your family. You simply chose another path.”

I sipped my wine. “I’m busy right now. I have a lot of things on my plate.”

“Running away won’t change anything.”

“I’m not running away. I’m choosing not to engage with people who make my life more complicated than it needs to be.”