by Sam Mariano
Since we all have a lot on the line, we fill our trays with letters and begin the game. Adrian decides we’re going oldest to youngest just so he can go first. Or, probably more accurately, so he and Mateo can go first. Sometimes Elise and I have a tendency to waste space early on with three or four letter words, while Mateo and Adrian are word wizards who can lay down seven tiles with nearly every play. Even when they get stuck with all vowels, they manage respectable word scores.
I rub my hands together as I finally get my first turn. I’ve been studying my letters, but now I study the board, seeking out the bonus spots, strategizing best placement.
Suddenly we hear coughing from down the hall—violent coughing, followed by something that sounds worse.
Elise launches out of the chair and runs down the hall to check on Westley.
Once she’s inside his room, she calls, “Help!”
I’m halfway down the hall before I realize she was probably calling for Adrian. That makes more sense. He gets there first anyway, but then takes a step back, grimacing, when he realizes why help was needed.
Westley’s little mouth is turned down, vomit pooled in his lap and trailing down his chin. “Aw, shit,” Adrian mutters, glancing at me.
“I’ll help with this,” I offer. “Why don’t you start a bath?”
He couldn’t look more relieved, and he can’t leave the room fast enough.
“Men,” Elise mutters.
I smile faintly, but I’m worried about Westley. “Does he have a fever?”
Placing the back of her hand against his forehead, she says, “He doesn’t feel warm. Ugh, this smells so gross. This was literally the only part of being a maid I didn’t like. Can you go grab a laundry basket?”
“I really want to, but I don’t know where to find one.”
Elise rolls her eyes as she picks Westley up, putting him on her shoulder and rubbing his back. “Find one or hold the smelly toddler. Your choice.”
Nodding once, I leave the room. I head to the bathroom, since it stands to reason there may be a laundry basket in there. If not, Adrian probably knows where to find one. He’s kneeling on the floor, one arm in the bath as he tests the water’s temperature. He lifts an eyebrow in question when I come in.
I lean against the sink. “Is there a laundry basket around here somewhere? I just realized I haven’t done laundry in four years.”
“Have you missed it?” he asks, lightly.
“I’m going to write sad ballads about how much. Where are laundry baskets?”
“When you get to the bottom of the stairs, the door right in front of you is the laundry room. Should be baskets in there.”
“I am horrified that I didn’t know this,” I tell him, turning to go in search of one.
Mateo remains at the table, hands laced together over his torso, relaxed as can be. I cock a judgmental eyebrow at him for not offering to help, but he doesn’t seem the least bit remorseful.
“Hey, I don’t clean up shit like that for my own kids, you think I’m gonna rush to clean up after Adrian’s?”
Indicating my swollen stomach, I ask, “Are you not going to help me when this happens with this one?”
“Is that my job?” he asks, sounding legitimately confused. “We have maids.”
“It doesn’t matter if we have maids. When a baby gets sick, you have to act fast, you can’t wait for maids to come clean it up.”
“Yes, you can,” he says, with the confidence of a man who has done just that.
I grip my head to keep it from exploding, but I don’t have time for this right now; Elise needs a laundry basket. All the way to get the laundry basket and back, I’m internally lecturing Mateo about the bond of parenthood and how as my baby’s father—biologically or not, it shouldn’t matter!—he is definitely the person I’m supposed to be able to count on to come to my aid in the middle of the night when I have a sick kid. Given he has so many children already, I don’t understand how this hasn’t come up by now. I guess I never thought about it. I wasn’t around at all for Beth, and Meg was so accustomed to being a single mother she may have had her own groove and didn’t bother him. Also, realistically, it’s probable that when Rosalie or Lily got sick, Mateo was in my bed and Meg was tending to them.
I’m so annoyed with him I don’t even look at him as I head back to Westley’s bedroom to help Elise. She is already in the bathroom with Adrian, but she left his soiled clothing on top of the bedding, so I hold my breath and strip the bed.
I ignore Mateo again as I head down to the laundry room and throw all this gross laundry into the washing machine. I’ve never used these machines before and they have far more bells and whistles than the ones I grew up using. When Vince and I lived at the mansion briefly, our laundry was done by the maids. When Vince and I moved out, we had a standard, cheap washer and dryer set.
These ones sort of look like I’m piloting an aircraft. I don’t understand why there are so many settings. It’s laundry! How complicated does laundry need to be?
Once the laundry is going—or the plane is prepared for take-off, I’m not entirely sure which—I go to one of the downstairs bathrooms to wash up. I feel gross. I need a shower.
When I get back upstairs I see that, while Mateo has not moved from the table, he has at least cleared the Scrabble board and put the game away. He glances up at me as I pass, but I head down the hall to check on Adrian, Elise, and Westley.
“How’s Westley feeling?” I ask.
Elise glances back at me, but she’s busy bathing Westley. Adrian is standing in front of the sink with his arms crossed and nothing left to do, so he answers me.
“He seems to be okay now. No fever, so maybe it was just something he ate.”
“Poor little guy. Do you want me to get him a drink or anything? Crackers?”
“Nah, I think we’re good. Thanks for coming to help. I don’t think the lady of the house is supposed to rush to clean up the servants’ quarters,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “Neither of you are servants and when children are sick, those with hearts come to help.” None too subtly, I narrow my eyes at the end of the hallway, hoping Mateo can feel my disapproval since he’s not looking at me.
“He doesn’t know,” Adrian says, shaking his head. “He didn’t have that kind of dad, Mia. You know what his dad was like. If Mateo was sick, either he cleaned it up himself or called a maid. I know it seems like common sense, but he wasn’t raised that way. If his mother ever came to his aid when he was sick, he was probably too young to even remember.”
Goddammit, there goes my attitude, melting into a puddle of love.
We are all such enablers.
Sighing heavily, I nod. “Fine, I won’t hold it against him that he has four children and one on the way and somehow still doesn’t think it’s his job to clean up after them when they’re sick.”
He pats me on the shoulder. “There you go.”
I head back to my logic-monster. He must be able to tell I’m done helping because this time he stands.
Draping an arm across my shoulder as he falls into step beside me, he says, “I take it Scrabble has been rescheduled for another night?”
“It has. And I don’t think we can survive a whole weekend here without Adrian. Now that I know how high the stakes are, we should practice a lot on our own to make sure we beat them.”
Rocking his head slightly left, then right, he appears unconvinced. “I have a lot of better things to do with my time than play Scrabble.”
“Name one.”
“You,” he says, easily.
“Maybe three months ago,” I state, placing a hand on my belly. I’ve never experienced this level of hugeness before; I am not a fan.
At least here he knows what to do. His arm drops from my shoulder and he grabs my ass. “Sexiest pregnant woman ever.”
I flash him a smile, blushing with pleasure. “You’re a lying liar, but I love you for that one.”
“You love me for lots of
them,” he reminds me, smiling faintly as he wraps his arm around my non-existent waist. “When we get back to the bedroom, I’ll give you hard evidence this one is a truth, though.”
I lean into him. “Oh, hard evidence, huh? I wonder what that will be.”
He leans close and stage whispers, “My cock.”
Elbowing him in the side, I bite back a grin. “I know. You couldn’t tell I was joking?”
His eyebrows rise and fall. “Look, I don’t want to insult you, but you did put your cell phone in the refrigerator the other day.”
My eyes widen in self-defense. “Pregnancy brain is real! The little Morelli logic-monster in my womb is sucking all the brain cells out of my head. We’re lucky I remember how to walk at this point.”
“That one probably won’t be a logic-monster,” he says dismissively. “It’s half you and half Vince; neither of you are excessively logical. He’ll be hot-blooded through and through.”
“For the millionth time, genes are not everything. Nature is important, sure, but so is nurture. For example, since apparently Morelli men are not born understanding that they are responsible for taking care of their sick kids, if we raise them that way, guess what? Our sons will know that regardless of how many maids live under the roof, regardless of how big and bad they are, when their baby throws up? They help the mom take care of business.”
Mateo sighs. “We’re back to this, huh?”
“It’s part of being parents. This is the sort of stuff that makes us Dominic’s parents—not his genes, not the stupid biological contributions—this stuff. Us being there for him and taking care of him and loving him. These are the things that make us his parents. You should have had all this stuff and it makes me want to spit on your dad’s grave that you didn’t, but that doesn’t mean our children shouldn’t. We can do better for them than anyone did for you.”
“If it is this important to you, I will help you clean up baby vomit.”
I beam and give his torso a squeeze. “Thank you.”
“I won’t be excited about it,” he warns me.
“I will be excessively grateful for the sacrifice,” I assure him. “So many sexual favors will be coming your way.”
“That’s every day.”
“True,” I acknowledge. “I need to start fucking you less so I have something to bargain with.”
“Now that is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” he informs me.
“I don’t think I could stick to my guns,” I admit.
He smirks. “I’d never allow it.”
“We’ll have to come up with something else.”
“How about you just ask?” he suggests.
That does seem to work. I don’t say so, but going over the list in my head, there isn’t a whole lot Mateo has denied me. That’s good. I want to teach him to be a better parent—not that he’s bad or anything, but there is some room for improvement. He’ll catch on. It’s going to be different this time, becoming a parent. The first go-round he had Beth, who by all accounts was incredibly self-centered. The second go was with Meg, and in addition to being accustomed to parenting on her own, he also had a relationship with me, so he wasn’t fully invested.
This time everything will be different. We are husband and wife. We are having our first child together. From day one, he will be there all the time with Dominic. Every night Dominic will be sleeping in the bedroom adjacent to ours. We will not be relying on Ju or Maria to do the heavy lifting—this time, it’s on us.
LAST WORDS
Last Words Prologue
Carly
“It was perfect. He’s perfect. He’s so handsome and polite and—and he opened the car door for me, and—I just, I can’t even tell you.”
I smile at that last bit. My beloved sister has been telling me for the last ten minutes about her marvelous coffee date with the most dashing man alive. I’d love to listen to her gab about her dream date for even longer, but the elevator doors open and it’s time to get my game face on, so I really need to wrap up this phone call.
“Laur, listen, I’m so excited for you and I can’t wait until I get home and you can tell me all about it, but my break is over so I really have to get back to work.”
She sighs heavily, still eager to girl talk. The bills have to be paid though, whether she’s met Prince Charming or not. “Well, should I go?” she asks.
I take a step into the corridor, spotting a suit-wearing gentleman standing outside the door at the end of the hall. Unease moves down my spine. I did not want to take this assignment, but when I expressed my reluctance to Rita, she laughed her ass off. Apparently, this is not a man you say no to.
“Go where?” I ask, not entirely paying attention.
“I told you, he asked if I wanted to grab dinner. I have to tell him when he gets back from making his phone call. I wanna say yes, but does it make me look like a total loser if I do? Like, they say it’s not good to be too available, right? Will he think I’m lame if I don’t have plans tonight? I guess he must not have plans either since he asked, but I don’t know the rules. Should I make him wait? I’m terrible at this stuff. You’re so much better at guys than me. I need your expert advice.”
I really don’t have time for this right now. “As long as it’s just dinner, sure, I guess so. I don’t care how hot he is or how many doors he opens, don’t you dare go home with him.”
“Oh, my lord, like I would do that. I’m literally hyperventilating at the prospect of the ride to dinner; I assure you we will not be getting naked anytime soon.”
“You better not.”
“I’m so nervous. Okay, I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna go to dinner with him.” She squeals, and I can’t help smiling. “Okay, got it out of my system. I’m good now. Nothing like this ever happens to me! Okay.” She pushes out another breath. “Wish me luck!”
“You’re brilliant, funny, beautiful, and awesome; he’s lucky to share a meal with you—you don’t need luck.”
“Love you. See you when you get home.”
“I look forward to hearing every intimate detail.”
I hang up the phone and tuck it away in my bag, taking a few seconds to collect myself before I strut down the hall toward the guarded door.
I’m nervous tonight.
I never usually feel nervous when I’m meeting with a new client—unless they like that, of course. Tonight I have no idea what my client wants, so I guess my nervousness is organic.
My orders for approaching Mateo Morelli are vague, at best. The only box he checked was “girlfriend experience.” I asked around to see if anyone might’ve tangled with him before me, but no one has—the uber hot Chicago crime lord never hires escorts to entertain him. Not until now, I guess. Maybe now that he’s getting married he wants to be a little more discreet.
Whatever, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I tell myself my nerves are just because he’s more dangerous than any of the men I’ve entertained before. I’m pretty good at landing on my feet, but when I’m dealing with the potentially dangerous, I like to have a better grasp of my surroundings. I would feel much better if I knew what to expect.
There’s a guard stationed outside the door who has to pat me down beforehand. This is actually not the first time I’ve encountered that, so I know the drill.
Another man opens the door, some scary-looking man with shaggy hair and a scarred face. He steps back to let me inside and closes the door, then he holds out a hand. “Phone.”
“I’m actually supposed to keep my phone on me for safety reasons.”
The man rolls his eyes. “Trust me; your phone wouldn’t save you if we had any bad intentions.”
That’s probably a good point. I don’t like to go off-protocol like this, especially with a first-time client, and especially with such a notorious first-time client. I hope this guy doesn’t have a basement full of dead hookers. I know he killed some girlfriend a long time ago. I also know he asked a lot of very specific questions about me before booking me, so I hope
he doesn’t have some weird murder habit, like he goes around seeking hookers who remind him of her. He’ll fuck me and then kill me after. I’ll be really pissed.
Scarface here is still waiting for my phone, so I reach into my bag and hand it over. He takes it apart and dumps the pieces on a gleaming end table along the wall. Then he points to the wall and tells me he has to pat me down.
“The guy outside did that already,” I inform him.
“I know,” he states.
Lot of free feels going on here tonight, but I brace myself against the wall and let this one feel me up, too. “Good thing I don’t charge extra for this,” I say, lightly.
He is not amused.
“Just kidding,” I assure him. “I get it. Gotta be cautious. Better safe than sorry.”
“Are you a nervous talker or just a pain in the ass?” he asks, his hands creeping up my bare thigh. This is a little awkward.
“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”
I wait for his hand to “slip” like some of these ass clowns, but he remains professional, switching sides and finishing up the thorough pat-down without being gross. That’s nice. It actually makes me feel slightly better about this whole thing.
“You’re good,” he tells me.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I assure him, barely missing a beat before adding, “Unless he’s not into that. Do you know if he’s into that? I’m not sure what he’s looking for.”
“One way to find out,” the man states, opening a tall, gleaming door and gesturing for me to go inside.
Of course he rented out a giant-ass suite. Not like I had doubts he was a high roller, but this hotel room cost more than my fee. Can’t these guys just get a simple room with a bed and give me the rest of the money they clearly have to waste as a tip?
Since apparently no one wants to give me any hints, I’ll just play it by ear. Girlfriend experience, so he probably likes familiar and friendly. Don’t want to strut in like a man-eater. A lot of powerful men get turned on by the woman taking the dominant role, but that idea dies a swift death the moment I lay eyes on Mateo Morelli in person. He oozes dominance, and strikes me immediately as a man who holds onto his power with a death grip; no one’s prying it away from him while he continues to draw breath, not even in the confines of the bedroom.