Chapter 7 #2
Her eyes meet mine, and they shine. Not with tears, exactly, but something near it. Regret maybe. Or longing. Maybe both.
“I know I can’t make up for lost time,” she continues. “But I’d still like to know who you are now. What you love. What you hate. Anything you’re willing to share.”
I run my finger along the rim of the teacup, staring down into the pale golden liquid. “I don’t know what I love right now,” I admit. “I’m still figuring it out.”
“That’s fair.” Her voice is soft. “But you don’t have to figure it out alone.”
I glance at her, unsure what to say. Unsure how much of me I’m even ready to offer. Things were headed into such a positive direction, but the normal life routines have made me hide from them both.
She must sense it, because she changes the subject.
“There’s a birthday coming up,” she says, almost playfully.
A smile teases at my lips. “I think you’re right. The eleventh, June? It does ring a bell.”
“That’s truthfully why I mentioned the party.” She continues gently. “We could throw a small one. Nothing too grand. Just a few people. You could invite someone if you like.”
My mind immediately goes to Sin. Then Bria.
But I say nothing. The only people in my life that aren’t the enemy is Victoria.
“Think about it,” she adds. “It doesn’t have to be a spectacle. Just something... warm. Something yours. I…” She looks away. “I know it’s selfish of me to say, but I’ve never gotten to celebrate your birthday with you.”
I nod slowly, the idea settling into the edges of my mind. I don’t know if I’m ready for that. But the fact that she wants to do something for me, really for me, makes something inside me thaw. I think about her struggles, the inner turmoil of not seeing me for any milestones.
I’m still for a moment, the sound of her voice cutting through the comfortable silence in a way that makes me feel suddenly vulnerable. My birthday. A day I’ve never really celebrated. A day that’s always been forgotten by everyone who mattered.
Her gaze doesn’t leave the space in front of her, and I can feel her mind wandering back. I almost don’t want to hear it, but I can't stop myself from leaning in, eager for something I didn’t know I needed. “What do you mean celebrate with me? Did you still do something?”
“Every year,” she continues, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of her teacup.
“When June eleventh rolled around, while you were at the orphanage, I would make a small cake. Nothing too big, of course. Just for me. It was always a simple lemon cake with buttercream. You would’ve liked that, I think.
” Her voice catches for a moment, a faint crack of emotion threading through the words.
She quickly smooths over it, but I’ve already caught it.
“I’d bake it while the house was quiet. Sometimes, I would pretend you were here.
Pretend you were out there, in the kitchen, helping me frost it, or laughing about how badly I’d mixed the batter.
Just the thought of it would get me through.
” Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and they’re brimming with an emotion I can’t quite place.
So much love, so much regret. “But you weren’t.
And there was nothing I could do about it. ”
I shift uncomfortably, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
"I’d light a candle for you every year, Magnolia," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "It was the only thing I could do. Even when it felt like the whole world had forgotten you, I never did. I’d sit in the dark, just staring at that little flame, imagining you as a little girl with your raven hair. I’d close my eyes and pretend you were there with me.
I’d sing you a song... the same one I used to sing to you when you were a baby. ”
I swallow hard, feeling something heavy settle in my chest. “What song?”
Her lips tremble as she smiles softly. “It’s silly, really. But it was a lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was little. I never stopped singing it to you, even when you were gone.”
“Can you sing it now?” I ask before I realize the question has left my mouth. My heart skips, nervous, but there’s something in me that wants to hear it. Something raw, something buried deep that wants to hear her sing, to hear her tie us together in a way I’ve never known before.
Maria’s eyes flutter closed for just a moment, like she’s gathering courage.
And then, her voice, soft and hesitant, begins to fill the room.
The notes are low at first, as if she’s testing the sound, but they gain strength as she continues, growing clearer, more assured.
The melody is old, gentle, and haunting.
It's the kind of song that feels like it’s been passed down through generations, full of love and heartache, steeped in something sacred.
I don’t speak, just listen.
Her voice breaks slightly as she hits the last note, and when she opens her eyes, they’re shining with tears she doesn’t bother to hide anymore.
“I sang that for you, every year,” she whispers. “Every single year, until I couldn’t do it anymore. Until the silence was too loud, too deafening without you here.”
I don’t know what to say. What can I say to that? That she’s given me something I never knew I needed? That every moment she’s spent thinking of me, missing me, has been hidden behind walls of quiet pain?
Instead, I find myself reaching out, my hand trembling slightly as I place it on hers. The touch is simple. Barely there, but it feels like the most profound connection we’ve shared so far.
Her gaze meets mine again, and for a moment, I don’t feel like the daughter who was lost. I don’t feel like the woman who’s been out of place in this house, in this life, for so long. For a second, it’s just the two of us, mother and daughter, together in this small moment.
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” I say quietly, a lump forming in my throat. “I’m here. I’m here now.”
Her lips tremble again, but this time she doesn’t try to fight the tears. She nods, a quiet acknowledgment that it will take time, so much time, but that she’s finally ready to stop pretending I’m still a distant dream.
“I know,” she says, her voice low and broken. “I know.”
I can’t tell who needs the comfort more, her or me.
In that small, tender moment, I feel like maybe we’re both starting to heal.
The tea grows cold in my hands.
Axle reappears and flops at my feet with a dramatic sigh. “We will be going to see the Caputo family when your brother returns.”
I’m still not used to the way this world moves, how effortlessly powerful people can smile while fencing with words sharp enough to slice the air.
We pull into the Caputo’s gated drive, our car creeping over pale gravel as the mansion unfolds like something out of a movie where people drink wine they can’t pronounce and say things like “Ah, yes, the '83 vintage was bold, but the '78 had more integrity.”
“Smile,” my mother says, peeking at me through the car mirror. She’s been fixing her lipstick for the past ten minutes like we’re about to walk into an audition for sainthood. “You look like someone just asked you to file taxes for fun.”
I playfully roll my eyes, “Every time I have met Zeik with Sin,” they both flinch at his name, and I don’t miss it.
That’s the thing that’s weird about Zeik Caputo’s relationship with every rival family, he is safe with all of them.
Free to roam around the different factions.
I could be that for our family, but what kind of danger does that role bring with it? “He was rude to me the first time.”
“That’s because you weren’t in the circle.” Cameron tells me with air quotes. “Did he treat you nice after getting to know you?”
I say his name again, not caring. “After Sin threatened him.”
Cameron smirks approvingly but quickly mask it with a smug. “I have known Zeik since I was five. He is annoying,”
Mom cuts in, “You two stop it, they are our biggest ally.”
Cameron chucks my arm, “They’re everyone’s ally, and that’s why visits like this are important.”
“I just don’t get why this couldn’t be a phone call” I mutter, tugging at the hem of my form fitted dress. “You said it’s just to say thank you, but this feels more like a strategy meeting than a social call.”
Cameron chuckles from the other side of me. “Maybe we’re saying thank you very seriously.”
My eyes narrow. “Why are you in such a good mood?”
He grins. “Because I just got back from a glorious vacation in Italy, alone. No one to bother me.” He stretches his arms out, tugging a piece of my hair. It makes me reminiscence on a childhood I didn’t get with him. We would have annoyed our mother to death, I’m sure.
Before I can stab him in the thigh with my heel, the car rolls to a smooth stop. A butler opens our door with a smile.
“Be nice,” my mother says, exiting first. “And say nothing weird.” She looks pointedly at Cameron.
“You’re literally asking the impossible,” He says.
We’re escorted through high-ceilinged halls, past oil paintings of the striking blonde Caputo legacies. The smell here is citrusy and ancient, like polished wood and lemon zest.
This is the kind of place where you feel the money. It’s not loud or flashy, but quiet and refined. Intimidating in a “don’t touch anything unless you’re ready to replace it with your soul” kind of way.
The sitting room is awash in golden light. A fire burns low in a marble hearth, the long table set with wine and enough charcuterie to feed an elite secret society.
And waiting for us? The Caputo’s.
Leon Caputo rises first, tall and dignified with a salt-and-pepper beard and a watch that probably has more diplomatic clearances than the United Nations.
“Maria,” he greets, extending both hands. “It’s a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is ours,” my mother replies, kissing each cheek like she’s known him since preschool. “We’re deeply grateful for your negotiations to keep Magnolia safe past any lines.”