White Knight (Dirty Mafia Duet, #2)(16)

But a feeling of unease creeps up my neck.

“Still deciding. What do you recommend?” I ask, not bothering to look at the server. Instead, I glance over my shoulder and find GTR’s gaze drilling into me. He and Randi hover near the exit, with GTR talking on his phone.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Please be talking to your driver and not someone else. Like your father. About how you’re going to bring something big to Dom to try to repair the truce.

My thoughts race as the server gives an effusive description of a fish I’ve never heard of nor care to eat, but I blurt out, “I’ll have that. Sounds great.”

My phone vibrates, and I don’t even try to be polite. I lift it and stare at the message.



Cannon: I’m on my way. Stay strong, baby. We got this.



Baby. It’s such a small word, but it packs a massive punch of feeling.

As I read the words, it’s like being wrapped in a heated blanket. Warmth and concern cocoon me. While I don’t know how Cannon plans to handle things so that we don’t end up dead, I believe that he will. I have faith in him.

I glance at the door again to find Randi and GTR are gone. Thank God.

“Memphis? Are you even listening to me? Of course you’re not. Why would I expect that you’d care about a word I have to say after you’ve ignored my calls for weeks?”

Something snaps inside me as I fix my eyes on the face of the woman who wanted nothing to do with raising me.

“When’s the last time you called me to find out how I was doing? You know, instead of just because you needed something. When was the last time you cared how my job was going? Or my life?” I toss my napkin atop my uneaten snail. “Or how I’ve been dealing with my grief? As a matter of fact, when was the last time you cared about something other than yourself?”

Apparently once the truth gates are open, anyone can get sucked into the undertow. At that moment, it’s my mother, but sometimes the truth hurts.

I’ll give credit to the Botox and fillers she’s gotten, because her eyebrows don’t move, although there’s still a semblance of shock on her face.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” The outraged tone punches through every self-righteous word she speaks. “I am the closest thing you have to a mother, and you should be happy you have at least one parent left.” Like she has to illustrate what a cliché she is, her jittery hand clutches her pearls.

The closest thing I have to a mother.

The words stick in my brain as a few patrons stare at the small scene we’re making in this acclaimed restaurant, but I don’t care if they watch. It’s safer if people see me. Safer with more eyes on us, especially until Cannon gets here.

“You’re right. But sometimes close isn’t enough. You’ve never wanted me in your life. You’ve resented me since I was old enough to know what resentment is. Why are you even here? Why did you even want to see me?”

A single tear tips over her lid, and a stab of sympathy pierces my chest.

“Because I don’t have any family left either, Memphis. Did you think about that?” She shoves away from the table, the Hermes bracelets encircling both her wrists clinking against one another. Snatching up her vintage Louis Vuitton speedy bag, she stalks away to the restroom.

Instead of feeling vindicated and proud of myself for finally expressing my feelings, I feel like an asshole.

I guess it’s no surprise why I’ve avoided having personal relationships for most of my life. The truth doesn’t discriminate; it can hurt anyone.

The entrées are served and still my mother doesn’t return. I stare down at the fish covered in a pungent truffle sauce and wait, thinking about one of the few times we actually got along. When I was eleven, she took me to Neiman’s to go shopping for my first bra, and we ended up on a shopping spree. It was before the drinking got bad. Maybe I should try harder to convince her to go to rehab.

As I consider the idea, I realize how much time has passed when Cannon walks in the door of the restaurant. He waves off the ma?tre d’ and strides toward the linen-covered table.

Leaning down to press a kiss to my cheek, he whispers, “Where’s the lioness?”

“I pissed her off and she ran to the bathroom.” I glance down at my phone to check the time. “Twenty minutes ago.”

Cannon’s eyebrows go up and he stands to his full height to help me out of my seat. “Why don’t you go check on her. I’ll take care of the bill.”

“I can pay—” I reach for my bag.

“Memphis.” He slips out a billfold from behind the lapel of his silk-lined jacket. “Go find your mother.”

I follow his orders, but she’s not in the restroom. I check every stall. When I come out, Cannon is standing near the door.

I wrap my arms around my waist and shrug. “She’s gone.”

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Ma’am?” an older gentleman says. “Are you looking for the blonde in blue Chanel who stalked out a little bit ago?”

Relief floods me. “Yes. Did you see her?”

“She said she was going for a smoke,” the man says, then corrects himself. “A fucking smoke, actually.”

I jerk my head back in shock. “A smoke? Thanks.” Turning to Cannon, I add, “That’s weird, because she doesn’t smoke. Or at least I didn’t know she smoked.”