Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 28

EMMA

Best friends have a way of asking you exactly the question you least want to hear. Phoebe’s eyes stay locked on mine as her words ring in my ears.

Which is great—if you can keep your feelings out of it. The question is: can you?

That’s the question of the year. Of the lifetime, maybe.

Because I’ve had these nightmares already and I know what would happen if the answer turns out to be “no.” I spend as little waking time as possible considering those outcomes.

Luckily, I’m saved from having to actually answer her question by a call vibrating my phone. I turn it over and groan the moment I see the name on my lock screen. “Satan’s Right and Left Hands.” I hold the phone up to Phoebe so she can see.

“Ugh. Just ignore them.”

Talk to the demons who spawned me or answer Phoebe’s question? Better the devil you know than the devil you sleep with, I guess.

Or something like that.

I give her an apologetic shrug and accept the call. Phoebe shrugs right back and walks off to the bakery counter to get a danish.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, honey!” She’s so over-the-top cheerful that I roll my eyes. “You didn’t return my calls last week.”

“I know; I’m sorry. I’ve just been swamped at work.”

“Mm, yes. Ben mentioned that.”

I grit my teeth. “You spoke to Ben?”

“Of course!” She has the gall to sound offended. “He is my son-in-law and the father of my grandchildren. Not to mention the fact that my daughter doesn’t pick up my calls anymore.”

Biting my tongue is the main reason I survived eighteen years under their roof. Well, that and Sienna. But with each passing year that I have to do this without my sister, it becomes more and more difficult to turn the other cheek.

“That’s because your daughter is busting her ass trying to provide for those kids. Ben can’t bust his ass—he’s too busy sitting on it.”

“Ben is grieving, Emma. It wouldn’t hurt you to have a little empathy for the man.”

Twenty seconds into the call and I’m already gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles have turned white. “A little empathy? Mom, it’s been three and a half freaking years! I’m grieving, too. That doesn’t mean you shut down and ignore the fact that you have three growing child—”

“Emma Lorraine Carson! My goodness. There’s no need to shout.”

I close my eyes and practice breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You’d think twentysix years of practice would be enough to get the hang of it; but if you knew my mom, you’d realize otherwise. I’m gonna pop a blood vessel at the rate I’m going. “I didn’t realize I was shouting.”

She sniffles. “I’m just saying, honey: he’s going through a lot. Sienna was the center of his world.”

I shake my head in disbelief. Sienna was the center of my world, too. She was my center long before she was Ben’s. But I’ve still been able to pick myself up and do what I can for those kids. Because I loved Sienna enough to protect what she loved most.

“Emma? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, Mom.” I dig at the flaking table lacquer with my thumbnail as that familiar tide of grief ebbs and flows in all its usual places. “I’m here.”

“So… how are the children? John’s birthday is coming up soon, isn’t it?”

I scowl at my half-eaten croissant. “First of all, it’s Josh. And his birthday was two months ago. So no, it’s not coming up soon.”

She titters self-consciously. “Oh, I must have confused it with the girls’ birthdays. They were born in March, right?”

“I’m sorry—do you think the girls share a birthday?”

“Twins usually do, honey. What a silly question.”

I press my thumb and index fingers to the corners of my forehead and rub slowly. I was busy last week when Mom called. But honestly, even if I wasn’t, avoiding her calls is completely justified.

“Except for the fact that the girls aren’t actually twins, Mom.”

“What do you mean? Of course they are. Sienna used to refer to them as her little twins all the time.”

“Sienna referred to them as her Irish twins. They were born eleven months apart in the same year.”

“Oh.” She rallies fast. “See? This is what happens when you don’t bring the children over to visit their grandparents regularly.”

Wow. I forgot about Mom’s famous backhand. There’s no issue, big or small, that she can’t lob blame back on someone else. She’s an artist at it.

“Why don’t you bring them over this weekend? Saturday is perfect.”

“What’s happening on Saturday?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you only ever mention specific dates when you’re hosting some sort of event and you want to show the kids off like prize ponies.”

“Emma Lorraine!” That makes twice in one conversation that she’s whipped out the middle name. She’s in rare form. “Sometimes, you sound so much like—”

I can hear her breathing hitch up just a little. I wait for her to backpedal or make this out to be my fault, but apparently, she’s shocked even herself. Probably by managing to forget one of her two daughters is dead.

I’m tempted to call her out, but Phoebe is walking back to the table and I really don’t have the emotional bandwidth to keep this conversation going.

“Listen, Mom, I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay.” She actually sounds relieved. “And remember, the offer still stands.” “What offer?”

“To take the kids. You said it yourself: you’re struggling to provide for them and you refuse to take our money—”

“I’m not interested in taking anything you try to give me with strings attached, Mom.”

Phoebe sits down opposite me, her eyebrows arching.

“Strings? What strings? There are no strings. Your father and I just want to be more involved in the children’s lives. We want to be able to introduce them to our circle of friends, expose them to new people, new opportunities.”

In other words: strings.

“I’ll think about it. Love you. Bye.”

The moment I hang up, Phoebe throws me a curious glance. “What selfless gesture is she offering up today?”

I roll my eyes. “Taking the kids off my hands.”

“That again? I thought you nipped that in the bud.”

“I thought I did, too, but my parents don’t give up that easily.”

Phoebe frowns. “Still—you do deserve to get some help.”