Gabriel
The house along the curb appears welcoming under the morning sky. It is the kind of suburban architecture people would sell their souls to own. It's in a good location too. But then again, Mrs. Dane said she was going through a financial crisis after her husband's untimely death. I'm assuming he left a bunch of dealers for her to sort in her middle age.
One can hardly trust the loyalty of gamblers.
She fits my profile. Her son is my age. Although I couldn't access a picture of the family, they are my closest shot. I have a strong feeling about this. It makes the blood in my veins thrum in anticipation.
Then why can't I gather the strength to step onto the porch? I heard her voice already. She had a cold but couldn't see doctors because of the fees, which immediately made me call clinics around the area for a home visit as quickly as possible. She should be getting a call soon. I already paid, so it is a matter of time. She won't be suffering for long.
Anton is tapping on the steering wheel impatiently, pursing his lips. I catch his gaze in the rear-view mirror, knowing he has questions he is dying to ask.
I sweep the sunglasses down my eyes, rubbing my face. "I told this to you in confidence," I remind him. "You reveal stuff like that—I'll end you."
"Got it, boss," he murmurs insincerely, his lips rolling. "There's no need to threaten me. I honestly don't even think it's true. Signora Valentino might be lying."
I wish she was.
"She's not," I deadpan. "She might say a lot of false things but what she said was true. I saw it in her eyes."
"And you think this is the solution?" Anton turns in his seat, peeking at the porch of the house with curiosity. "Going door to door of every family on the list to get their DNA?"
I let out an exasperated breath. I have doubted myself long enough. I don't need him to tarnish the rest of my confidence. "It's a simple test. I did my calculations and she has the highest chance of being my mother."
"On what basis?"
"Her husband was a gambler."
"Huh?"
I clear my throat, rubbing my thumb over my bottom lip. I had a mini accident in the gym today while stressing over Sofia's words. It resulted in a cut on my chin which I now itch to dig my fingers into and scratch away.
"Vera said my biological father was a gambler," I explain in a hardened tone. "That's how he came into the whole 'exchange child idea' thing. So, I did some digging and her husband was a known gambler. He even died under mysterious circumstances so I'm assuming her to be my closest shot. The others on the list check out."
Anton tilts his head thoughtfully. "And the family was from New York?"
"Sì."
"Let me get this straight—" Anton's eyebrows draw together as he speaks. "You're going to knock on a woman's door to steal her DNA just because you think she might be your mother because her deceased husband was a... gambler?"
He sounds revolted by the idea, making me give him a stern glare. "Do I look like I'm joking to you?"
Anton chuckles like he has stumbled upon the joke of the century. "Gabriel, you're the Don of the motherfucking New York Conclave! You can't go around knocking on random people's houses asking for Mommy."
"Spare me that crap." I hook the sunglasses into the placket of my shirt, checking my hairstyle in the rear-view mirror. I tried to dress casually today for the meeting, opting for a simple denim shirt and white khakis to not seem intimidating. I drop my hands upon realizing what I'm doing. This is so not me. "You don't think I find this humiliating? I know how it looks and that's why I wanted you to drive me. I trust you."
Anton pulls a face. "Your trust scares me."
I lean back into my seat, letting out a sigh. "Don't talk like Sofia now."
"Now, where did Sofia come from?" Anton's lips twitch into a grin. "She broke that little heart of yours again, didn't she?"
"Don't start. I have had enough shit this week. My mother revealed she wasn't my mother, Sofia walked all over me, Bianca is being a pain in my ass—" Thinking of Bianca instantly brings an appalling twist in my gut. The mere thought of her face makes me want to throw up. "—What's next? I find out that my name is something like... Bartolo?"
Anton's lips press thin. "My father's name was Bartolo."
"Yeah, I know."
His tongue prods his cheek as he squints at me. "Okay, just go and do your thing."
I am already out of the car before he can order me out. I hurry to climb up the steps to the porch. The door is made of old oakwood, with a knocker attached to it. I ring the doorbell, then slide my hands into my pockets as I wait with a racing heart.
The click of a lock turning makes my stomach cramp before the door opens, revealing a middle-aged woman wearing a servant's apron, her dark hair with streaks of white in it, and her warm brown eyes scrutinizing me. She parts her chapped lips upon taking me in and for a while, I find myself staring too, both of us speechless for no reason.
A honk sounds in the distance, making me blink at last.
"Hello?" I greet. "Is Mrs. Dane home?"
The woman grabs the door tightly with white knuckles. "Mrs. Dane is home, signore—" She shakes her head. "I mean—Mr?"
A fellow Italian, I see.
"Storm." Just like my life.
"Mr. Storm, what do you want with Mrs. Dane?"
"I called her before. She said she's looking to sell this house." My answer seems to calm the doubts in her. "She invited me for a tour."
"Sì...sì..." she mumbles quietly as she smiles with small white teeth and releases the chain from the lock. She steps away, opening the door for me. "Come in, Signore. Madam!" she shouts up a set of stairs situated by the foyer. A Mr. Storm is here to see you."
My eyes trail up the wooden staircase as it creaks under the weight of a slow pale pair of feet that descend one at a time. A middle-aged woman with thick blonde hair, her face covered in slight wrinkles, the corners of her green eyes crinkled, comes down wearing a pink dress under a blue cardigan. She lights up when she sees me and my heart jumps.
She could be my mother. She could be the one who carried me for nine months. She could be my blood.
I stop my fingers from itching to take a strand of her hair. She stops to stand in front of me.
"Mr. Storm, welcome," she says, her soft hands touching mine and squeezing as she gazes into me with twinkling eyes. "Did Daiana invite you in yet? She is very protective of me."
The other woman, who I assume is Daiana, blushes. "Sì, madam."
So, she is perhaps the housekeeper or a caretaker.
"Will you have coffee, Mr. Storm? Daiana can make us some while I give you a tour," Mrs. Dane says, pulling away.
I cut my gaze to Daiana's, forcing myself to not stare too long at Mrs. Dane. "Black."
Daiana dips her chin. "Please find me in the kitchen once you're done. I'll have them ready."
***
Mrs. Dane enthusiastically gives me a tour of her grand house, oblivious to the fact that I am here for her and not for the house at all. She tells me stories about every room, from the three bedrooms to the balcony to the bathrooms even where her son grew up. She gets emotional talking about her husband who she had a love match with from their college days. She never mentions his gambling problem so I think she would rather prefer to keep it hidden.
I pretend to be interested in her 3-BHK but what interests me more are her stories. I even have the chance to get a strand of her hair and put it in my pocket. She doesn't even feel it.
Once we are done above, she guides me down the stairs to the living room which proceeds to the kitchen with a six-seater dining table placed on the opposite side of the island.
"This is our grand dining room." She spreads her arms to show off her, her happiness written on her face. "Do you have a family, Mr. Storm?"
I take the questions as a bitter pill, my throat clogging up. "Not really." An image of Sofia in my bed this morning flashes through, replacing the bitterness. I did fuck her well. We could have a baby soon. "But I plan to have one."
Mrs. Dane smiles widely. "I bet you can already picture your little ones running around here."
"I'm sure I can."
Daiana fetches two mugs of brimming hot liquid, placing them on the dining table. "Here's your coffee, Signore."
She straightens, and then her lips twist in a frown when she looks at me.
"Any problem?" I ask.
"You have something on your cheek." She gestures to the part under my eye and I wipe the spot. She sighs. "Here, let me." She grabs the end of her apron and pinches my chin with her other hand, keeping my head still as she rubs the spot with care. "Boys these days can never take good care of themselves, can they?" She brushes her apron all over my face, smiling proudly once she is done. "There you go."
I feel my cheeks warm up at her casual manner of approaching me. It feels good to have people not fear me all the time. "Thank you, Daiana."
"Grazie."
She goes to stand behind her mistress who is looking at me expectantly. "So, what have you decided?"
I am seventy percent sure that this is the right place. Mrs. Dane could be my mother and I won't lose a chance to get into her good graces. "I think I will—" I begin but am interrupted by the sound of the door opening.
Instincts from years in the Cosa Nostra have me jumping to my feet and placing myself before Mrs. Dane, just as a tall Black man about my age steps into the kitchen.
"Mom, is someone in?" the man says. "I saw a car parked."
Mom
The word crashes me into my reality as I take in his features, the color of his skin which isn't at all a match for either Vera's or Juan's. His eyes are a shade of green which spot me by his mother.
He freezes for a second, staring agape. I am faintly aware of the shuffle of feet behind me as a chair is dragged on the floor. Mrs. Dane walks to the man.
"Tyler," she says, smiling at him. "You're home early." She holds his elbow as she turns to me. "Mr. Storm, this is my son, Tyler. Mr. Storm here is a potential buyer."
Her son
I feel my throat dry. "You're her son?"
Tyler gives me a weird look as he crosses his arms. "You have any doubts, man?"
"No, not at all," I mutter absently, my head pounding. "You don't look very alike."
Tyler blinks before bursting into a chuckle. "Ah! My father was the Black man," he says between wheezes. "I look all the way like him."
His father
I should have waited for the pictures. Cazzo!
"He does," Mrs. Dane agrees. "Reminds me of Kevin every day."
The way she gazes up at her son, her motherly care for him shimmering in her pupils. My chest hollows out, feeling like a black hole sucking all the emotions in.
"I see." I hear the faded note in my voice. "You know what? I think I like the place. I might buy it. I'll have my lawyer contact you, Mrs. Dane."
I start to walk away, not daring to look at either of them again. The strand of hair in my pocket starts to feel like it weighs a ton.
Daiana steps beside me, blocking my path as she carries a coffee mug. "Mr. Storm, your coffee?"
I look at her at a loss for words.
"I just realized I have to be somewhere... urgently," I politely say, moving out of the way as I nearly run out of the house.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I jump down the porch, rushing to get to the car before anyone can follow. Once I am inside the safety of the vehicle, Anton straightens.
"What's wrong?" he asks. "You look like you saw a ghost."
I glance ahead, at the street, its people and skyscrapers, playing the moment Tyler walked into the room over and over.
"She's not her," I whisper. "She's not my mama."
***
All I want is Sofia right now. She has to be home by now and I will do whatever it takes to take me in her arms again. I need her to hold me. I need to tell her everything. She will understand. I need to feel her heat, I need to smell her. With her, everything is right.
But fate has other plans because the moment I enter the mansion, Isiah comes running. "Boss, you have a guest waiting in the playroom."
I look at him with gritted teeth, muttering under my breath, "Who?"
He glances at the playroom, his face losing some color. "Just so you know—Signorina Bianchi isn't home yet so it's just you guys. There's no need for a competition—" he watches me for reactions warily "—or a bloodbath."
"Isiah, I have had a shitty day. You don't want to test my patience now."
"I wouldn't dream of but I bet he does," he says. "It's Dante Salvatore."