The Broken One (Corisi Billionaires, #1)(57)

I ran a hand through my hair. She wouldn’t see my faults. Still, because I needed to get it out of my head, I told her about the conversation I’d had with Rakesh Bhatt, along with my response to him. This situation had haunted me, and I shared the conversations I’d had with my brothers that had led to me taking this “vacation.” My mother had always been able to look beyond what I said into the heart of what was bothering me.

She came around to sit closer to me. “This man’s situation with his father is not your responsibility.”

“I know.”

“And your brothers are perfectly capable of filling in for you. You deserve time off.”

“That’s why I left.”

“But you want to help him, don’t you?”

“I do. But there’s a cost to agreeing to push back the construction. We have employees to pay. Compassion doesn’t pay our bills.”

“But nor does a little of it topple a business like you’ve built. Sebastian, when I was younger I thought there was a right way and a wrong way. It brought me a lot of grief. Eventually I realized that the only right way is the one I can live with. And the only wrong one is the one my heart cannot tolerate.” She laid her hand over my heart. “The answers you’re looking for are not in Italy. Your heart is telling you everything you need to know.”

Although I wasn’t sure what that would mean as far as my business decision, her words struck home. “That helps, thank you.”

She smiled and kissed my forehead again. “Now tell me, why do you have glitter in your hair?”

My hand went to my head. Glitter? Oh yes, it had started on Heather’s face, then slowly spread all over both of us. I’d thought I’d washed it all off. “A friend of mine has a child.”

“A friend. Do I know this friend?”

“Mom.”

Her eyes went wide with innocence. “If a mother can’t ask her son about who he is spending time with, what can she ask him?”

“If there was something to tell you, I would.”

“Mauricio said you’ve been talking to the woman you returned the stuffed animal to. She has a child.”

“Yes, okay? I’ve seen her a few times. She’s a very nice woman.”

“You’ve gotten close, no?”

I wasn’t about to say.

My mother waved a hand at my hair. “Glitter doesn’t jump. So why haven’t I met her?”

I rubbed my hands over my face. “Could we drop this? I’m reasonably certain it’s over anyway.”

“What did you do?”

“Why are you sure I did something?”

She arched an eyebrow. “A mother knows. So have you apologized to her yet?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“It’s never more complicated than that. My sources say only good things about her. I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

“Your sources? Since when do you have sources?”

She waved both hands. “Since my children have all decided to stay single. I am not getting younger. Don’t focus on me; think about you and this woman. You need to fix this.”

Speaking of having sources made me remember something. “Mom, when I was at Nonna’s, she said there was a red-haired American woman asking a lot of questions about you and your sister.”

My mother went pale. “Did Nonna tell her anything?”

“It didn’t sound as if she did. Is there something to tell?”

My mother stood. “It’s better to look forward rather than back, Sebastian. Now eat and think about what you can do to get back in the good graces of this Heather woman. I know my vote doesn’t count, but her daughter is adorable. After so many boys, I would love to spoil a little girl.”

I allowed my mother to change the subject, because I understood how sometimes the only way a person could deal with something was to close a door on it. What was the past my mother refused to face? What was she afraid someone might uncover?

I could have told her that no matter what she’d done, nothing would change my love for her—but she knew that. My mother wasn’t one to keep secrets or pretty up the truth. If she was hiding something, she had a reason to.

From concern, not curiosity, I sought out time alone with my father before leaving that day. I told him about the red-haired woman who’d been asking questions about our family in Montalcino and about my mother’s reaction to hearing of her.

My father sat down in his favorite leather chair and took a moment before answering. “A man could draw a thousand pictures and never create one as perfect as your mother. She was a beauty who stood out in our town like a rose in a field of wildflowers. Her older sister was a beauty as well, but not like Camilla. Theirs is a complicated story that’s not mine to tell, but I love your mother more for every choice she made. We’ve had our good times and our not-so-good ones, but I’m a better man because she pushed me to be.”

It was the most my father had spoken on the subject. I paced beside his chair. “Does this have something to do with Gian? Is Mom’s sister looking for him?”

“She knows where he is. She’s always known.”

“Why have none of us met her, then? Is she dead?”

My father’s eyes darkened. “To me, to our family, she is. Once, perhaps, she acted selflessly, but she chooses to live in a state of crisis to justify putting her own needs above those of anyone else. I don’t hate her. I refuse to waste any emotion at all on such a person. If Gian never meets her, I think he’ll be better for it. She is neither strong nor loyal like your mother.”