“Tough luck for Juan though,” Robert commented from the back seat. “It seems to run in the family.”
“What do you mean it seems to run in the family?” G.G.’s mother asked, turning in the front passenger seat to peer back at her husband.
“Scotty mentioned that Juan’s son, Vasco, had been one of two possible life mates for a girl named Jess,” Robert explained. “The other man was a Notte. Raffaele I think he said his name was.”
G.G. glanced at his stepfather in the rearview mirror, curious to hear this. Jess was the name of the friend Ildaria had lived with in Montana. Her life mate’s name was Raffaele, but Ildaria hadn’t mentioned anything about Vasco being a possible life mate for Jess too.
“What happened?” Mary asked with interest.
“Apparently, Vasco lost out to Raffaele, just like Juan lost out to our boy,” Robert said with a shrug. “Bad luck in love seems to run in that family.”
“Poor Juan,” Mary sighed, and settled back in her seat with a shake of the head. “First his son, and now him. I do feel sorry for him.”
G.G. scowled at the words, his hands tightening briefly on the steering wheel as he thought, poor Juan my ass. The man was an arrogant arsehole, and he’d taken control of him and made him sit down. That had really pissed him off. G.G. hated being controlled. On top of that, the man had been insulting as hell about him, calling him a childish mortal. And all because he dressed casually and wore his hair in an unconventional style. He owned a nightclub, for heaven’s sake. He wasn’t a Wall Street drone who had to prance around in designer suits and really awesome gold watches. He could buy that watch if he wanted to. He had money, two businesses, and property. He wasn’t some ne’er-do-well flunkie.
“Imagine searching for your life mate for two hundred years,” his mother said now. “Knowing who she is and that she’s out there, but searching year after year, decade after decade, and then finally, when you do find her, it’s too late. She’s claimed another as her life mate. Poor Juan.”
“Yes, poor Juan,” G.G. muttered, bringing a sharp look from his mother.
“You don’t sound very sympathetic, son,” Mary said, her tone disapproving. “Try to imagine if your roles were reversed.”
“If our roles had been reversed I wouldn’t have been a jackass and attacked Ildaria,” he assured her, and then said unsympathetically, “He did it to himself.”
“You’re right, of course,” she agreed sadly. “If he hadn’t attacked her all those years ago, she wouldn’t have run, and he probably would have claimed her at eighteen as he’d planned. You never even would have met her.”
G.G. blinked at that and then frowned. He couldn’t imagine never having met Ildaria. The woman had become such a big part of his life in this last month that he didn’t know what he’d do without her. Hell, he didn’t want to know what he’d have to do without her.
“Of course, that wasn’t really his fault,” his mother added judiciously. “Attacking her I mean. He was spaced out on that opium, matzas, and cocoa.”
“Opium, mescal, and coca leaves,” G.G. corrected absently, still thinking about what his life would be like without Ildaria in it.
“Right. That,” his mother said and fell silent for a minute, but then shrugged and added, “But I’m glad he’s decided to roll with the punches. Although, I suppose that must be easier when he knows it will all work out for him in the end. He just has to be patient for twenty or thirty years more and then he can have her.”
G.G. stiffened at the suggestion. “What do you mean he can have her in twenty or thirty years?”
“Well, being mortal, you won’t live much longer than that,” she pointed out. “And once you die, he can come claim her as his life mate.”
“Over my dead body,” G.G. muttered.
“Exactly,” she said, sounding chirpy.
G.G. eyed her sharply.
“Well, it’s true,” she said, shrugging helplessly.
“Yeah, well maybe I’ll live fifty years just to spite the bastard,” he muttered.
“Not the way you eat, dear. You like your fried foods too much,” she responded at once.
G.G. glowered at her. Not that his mother seemed to notice. She was shaking her head now, her mind on poor Juan.
“Yes, I imagine twenty or thirty years is the best we can expect, and then we’ll lose you to a heart attack or stroke or something.”