The emotions swirling through my head are just too much to take, so I look away. Maybe my mother is still the gentle soul she was when she took care of me all those years ago. But if she isn’t … I’m probably going to wish I never ran away from Marcello.
When we finally get there, I can’t help but peer at the giant house in front of me. It’s much bigger than the one I grew up with, complete with a huge garden and a garage that could house several cars.
The car stops near a voice box, and Cillian starts to talk.
“I have her.”
There’s a beep, and the gates open. The whole property is surrounded by a gate that looks impenetrable as we drive through it. Even though the area is lush with greenery and beautiful trees, it still feels ominous going inside. Like I’m going from one luxurious prison into the next.
But this is my mother we’re talking about. She wanted to find me because she cares, right?
At least, that’s what I tell myself as the car stops right in front of the door.
Cillian steps out and quickly opens my door so I can get out, too. My eyes can’t help but peer up at the three-story building, wondering who would ever need such a huge house without a family to fill it. But then it hits me.
My fake father was part of the Irish mob, as Marcello said.
So that means … my mother is as well.
A cold shiver runs down my back. Cillian’s touch on my shoulder makes me jolt up and down.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod and walk toward the door because I know I have no choice. If I don’t come along willingly, he’ll force me to. I can deduce as much from his penetrative stare. I gulp as I approach the steps, each footstep feeling heavier than the one before.
When I get to the top, I don’t even have to ring the bell or knock on the door. It’s already open.
“Hello, Miss Fitzgerald,” a maid says.
The mere fact that she tries to address me with that name, as though it belongs to me, makes my skin crawl.
Still, I smile, if only to keep up the veneer of fake happiness. “Hi.”
“I’m so glad you’re back,” the woman says. But I don’t even know her. “C’mon.” She beckons me inside.
“Isn’t he coming?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at Cillian, who goes back to his car.
“No, he’s got a job to do,” she replies.
I don’t think I want to know what kind of job that is.
I’m also way too occupied with staring at my surroundings, at all the beautiful tapestries and paintings hanging on the walls of this house, which reminds me of a nineteenth-century building. There are two rooms on each side of the hall and a big marble staircase in the middle that fans out when it gets to the top. Even the floors are made of marble, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of money they had to earn to afford this.
Blood money, I’m sure.
Suddenly, a woman in a dark red dress walks out of a room at the top of the stairs.
Mom.
Even though I haven’t seen her since I was a little girl, I still recognize that curly chestnut hair, puffy, round face, and signature lipstick from a long time ago.
My knees start to wobble as she clutches the railing, her light brown eyes boring into my soul.
“Harper …” The way she speaks my name makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I didn’t think I’d ever hear her voice again.
She goes down the stairs with elegance and grace, her hand on the railing, her body sliding down like a snake slithers down a tree. While I’m frozen to the ground, she walks up to me and clutches my hands. “I’m so, so happy you’re back here.”
Her voice and over-the-top Irish accent make me cringe.
Her voice is so warm and filled with love that it undoes me. “Mom.” Even though I don’t know if I can trust her or not, my whole body yearns for her touch.
And when she finally opens her arms, I fall into them with happiness. My head rests against her chest as we hug tight, and for a moment, I can forget every bad thing that has happened to me since the fire. Since I started looking for my parents’ murderer.
But she is not dead. She’s here, in the living flesh, finally in my arms.
And still, the fire of anger in my heart cannot be quenched.
I unfurl myself from her arms and look up at her. “I didn’t know you were alive … All this time, I thought you and Dad were dead. Why didn’t you ever come looking for me?”
“Oh, A leanbh.” She grabs my face and looks at me. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to be hurt by everything.”
A leanbh. I have no idea what it means, but it sounds like “honey” or “darling” to me, so I guess I’ll take it as such.
“What happened to you at the fire?” I ask.
She makes a face. “Oh, c’mon now, let’s not talk about that horrible night. We have so much catching up to do.” She places a hand on my back and guides me along. “Come. Let’s go into the living room.”
I’m partly surprised she brushes over it so easily, but at the same time, I’m too overcome with emotions to care.
We go into the room to the right, a place that’s filled with couches, a big fireplace, and windows that go all the way from the ceiling to the floor, lighting the entire room. My mother sits down on the big white couch right in front of the fireplace and flicks her fingers at a maid, who quickly dashes off.
Within a minute, she’s back, placing refreshing drinks on a glass table in front of the fireplace.
“Thank you,” I say to the woman, who just smiles and blushes.
My mother says nothing. Instead, she rolls her eyes. “Leave us.”
No thanks for the drinks? Was she always so coldhearted?
“I’m glad Cillian was finally able to track you down. After you escaped Marcello’s grasp, I was afraid we’d never be able to find you,” she says, picking up her drink with flair.
I frown. “How did he know where to look?”
“Oh, we’ve been tracking your every move since your father ambushed Marcello in that warehouse.”
Tracking my movement?
Does that mean she also knows about Marcello’s hideout?
She takes a sip of her drink, but all I can focus on is the fact that she knew my father ambushed Marcello. And it doesn’t seem to do anything to her. There’s no emotion coming from her at all, and it makes the room suddenly feel chilly.
“I was so angry he had bought you at an auction,” she says, huffing. “Can’t believe the gall.”
“How did you …?” I murmur.
“A leanbh, we have eyes and ears everywhere,” she says, her glare making me feel hyperaware of my environment.
I can’t ever forget I’m in the lion’s den.
“Ever since that wretched Igor set our house on fire, we’d been searching for you nonstop, but you went under the radar … until you suddenly showed up at that auction,” she says, putting down her drink again while keeping her eyes on me. “But then Marcello bought you. I wanted nothing more than to personally wrap my fingers around his neck.”
I don’t know why, but it feels like she’s clawing at mine instead.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with where this is going. Why would she talk about Marcello instead of us, our family, and the night that shaped all of our lives?