Mafia Casanova - M. Robinson Page 0,29
set her back on her feet. Damn, she was growing up really fast. It seemed every time I saw her, she turned more and more into a woman.
Where had the time gone?
Great.
Another female in my life I needed to worry about. Fuck. I saw a lot of shooting and torture in my future.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I lied through my teeth, earning a snort from Tristian.
Bastard.
Juliet rolled her eyes. “Mom and I had a bet. I told her you’d show, but she said you’d rather get drunk than—”
I cupped a hand over her face. “You talk too much.”
She jerked away. “Don’t mess up my lip gloss.”
“Wouldn’t dare.” I winked. “Where is Ma?” I peered around her and froze.
There she stood, rubbing her pregnant belly while my mom stood by her side. I could always decipher what was behind each emotion each time she showed them.
She was happy.
Fucking elated.
And as if sensing me in the room, she turned and gave me a glimpse of a sad smile.
Pity.
It nearly hurt worse than the sorrow and anger.
She knew.
Of course, my own mother knew how much I’d loved the girl standing by her side—how many times had I imagined this very scenario until it was explained that my purpose would not be a contribution to the family by way of marrying and settling down.
No, my contribution would be death.
Murder.
Just like my brother’s contribution was clearly life.
“She’s so beautiful,” Juliet uttered next to me.
“She is,” Tristian agreed.
If they were waiting for me to say something, they were shit out of luck; I pushed past both of them on wooden legs toward the object of my love.
Of my hate.
Of my affection.
Of all my emotions.
After all, they weren’t opposites, were they? Not even close.
They were like twin brothers constantly warring with one another until one day, a winner was crowned, a loser killed.
My love had lost.
So I fed my hate even more.
That was my sin.
My cross to bear.
Heavy was the crown to the one who wears it, and I carried it proudly on my head.
“Ma.” I leaned in and kissed each of her cheeks, inhaling the Oscar de la Renta perfume she always wore behind her ears.
Her jet black hair was pulled tightly back, twisted into a bun, kept there by two pins worth more than most people’s cars.
“You don’t come around as much as you should.” Ma’s red lips spread into a small pout, and I wrapped an arm around her, kissing the top of her head. “But you’re here now; that’s what counts.”
“Yes.” I swallowed, once, twice, then finally turned to Eden.
Her eyes dripped with a hatred I’d carefully built there, constructed, watered, and tended like the garden she was.
“Eden,” saying her name hurt, the one word like poison on my tongue. “You look absolutely lovely.”
My smile hurt.
Hers was nonexistent.
“Thank you, Romeo.” She turned to my mom and reached for her hand. “I’m going to go grab some fresh air.”
Ma instantly deflated. “Good idea, keep that baby healthy.”
“Always,” Eden stated before walking off, her ass swaying even pregnant in her tight white strapless sundress.
Something pinched my side.
“Ouch!” I swatted Ma’s hand away. “Son of a bitch, why so violent?”
“Why such an asshole?” she countered.
I narrowed my eyes. “I said she looked lovely.”
“You sounded half dead!”
Didn’t she know? I was. At least my heart was.
“Ma.” I looked over my shoulder to make sure Tristian wasn’t watching or reading my lips, then lowered my mouth to her ear and whispered, “You know why I can’t.”
She stiffened. “Still that bad?”
“You have no fucking clue.”
“Language.”
I sighed. “Sorry.”
She reached for my hand and squeezed. “I’ll light a candle for you. One day it won’t hurt so much; one day, you’ll find love just like Tristian.”
“No, thank you.” My smile was sad, my heart heavy. “I don’t think I want that kind of love, Ma. I wouldn’t survive it twice; I barely survived it once.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.” I tried to sound convincing. “Now, stop looking like you’re ready to cry. You know I can’t see you cry. Please.” I kissed her hand. “I’m going to go grab a drink.”
She smiled. “Good idea.”
I maneuvered farther into the living room where the table of treats was set up. There was enough food to feed an army and enough candy to put anyone in a sugar coma, which explained all the screaming kids running up and down the stairs with plastic swords.
Walking over to the bar in the corner, I poured