Chapter 41
RHETT
La Tavola was busy as always, even on a Wednesday afternoon. I watched my mother move through the dining room, greeting her customers like she had known them all her life. I supposed it was true for a few of them.
I sipped the soda one of the other servers brought me and watched her work. I offered to take care of her. I could buy her a home and make sure she never had to make another bowl of pasta for anyone for the rest of her days, but she refused.
The restaurant was her new home. Her new life. After my father’s arrest, she used her savings and a loan to buy out his share from the government auction. The restaurant was completely hers, free from any taint of his money.
I was proud of her for making her own way. No one in the family looked down on her for choosing her own path. What they said about mob wives wasn’t entirely wrong. When you were in, you were in for life. But my mother was respectful of the family. She loved them but didn’t want to be involved.
I supported her decision. Hell, I had done the same thing. We weren’t on the outs with the family, but I wouldn’t say we were on the inside either. It was better that way.
“Raffaele!” she called when she spotted me, using my real name like she always did. To the rest of the world I was Rhett Voss, but to her I’d always be Raffaele Voscari, the little boy who used to stand on milk crates to reach her stove.
She finished taking an order from a table of businessmen, then made her way over to where I was waiting by the hostess stand.
“Come,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “We’ll eat on the patio. It’s heated, and I want to look at you while we talk about all this nonsense I’ve been reading.”
The heated patio overlooking the street was one of my favorite spots in the restaurant. We settled at a small table, and she immediately started fussing—bringing me antipasti, pouring wine, adjusting the heater even though it was perfectly comfortable.
“Mama, sit,” I said. “Please.”
She finally settled across from me, fixing me with those dark eyes that had always been able to see straight through to my soul.
I knew she’d seen the media. She would have to be blind not to.
Usually, she ignored it. She was the one who told me to ignore the crap they wrote about us and our family.
But certain things she demanded I explain.
And the situation with Clementine was going to be one of those times.
“So,” she said, picking up a piece of bread. “Tell me about this Hartley girl.”
I should have known she’d cut straight to the heart of it. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Starting with why you look like someone stole your favorite toy. She’s a good girl. I like her. She likes you.”
Despite myself, I smiled. “She’s—she was amazing, Ma. Smart, funny, talented. She made me want to be better.”
“Was?”
“It’s over.” I took a long sip of wine. “Her family doesn’t approve. The media attention. It’s complicated. She’s too young. Too new in this world. It’s not fair to her to attach her clean reputation to mine.”
My mother set down her bread and fixed me with that look—the one that had made me confess to breaking her good china when I was eight, the one that had gotten the truth out of me about every lie I’d ever tried to tell.
She could have been one of Dad’s enforcers.
The woman looked all sweet and grandmotherly, but she was a master at interrogation.
“Your reputation is wrong, Raffaele,” she said firmly. “You know this. I know this. Anyone who takes five minutes to look past the headlines knows this.”
I shook my head. “Ma—”
“No.” She held up her hand. “You listen to me. You think I don’t see what you do?
How you take care of everyone? You pay for your cousin Tony’s kids to go to private school.
You send money to your Aunt Maria every month so she can keep her house.
You hire people who need second chances, who other restaurants won’t touch. ”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? You think the newspapers write about that? You think they care that my son works eighteen-hour days, that he built something beautiful from nothing?” Her voice was getting louder, more passionate.
“They write about your tattoos, about your father, about fights you got into when you were twenty-two and stupid.”
I stared down at my wine glass. Usually, I ignored these little pep talks. She’d been doling them out since I was a child. That’s what moms did. But it felt different this time. Or maybe it was because I needed to hear it. I needed my mother to tell me I wasn’t a bad man.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s fine. It wasn’t anything serious.”
My mother made a disgusted sound. “You’re too old to be making out in closets, tesoro mio. When you love a woman, you should shout it from the rooftops! Forget the strangers in comment sections and articles. What do they know about love that we don’t?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Love is always simple. It’s everything else that’s complicated.”
I looked at her, this woman who’d always been my compass, and wondered if maybe her perspective wasn’t quite right this time. After all, she’d fallen in love with a literal mobster. And she was my mother. She had to try and convince me I was good enough.
She must have sensed my thoughts because she reached across the table and took my hand.
“I adored your father,” she said quietly. “And I went into my marriage with him with my eyes wide open. I knew who he was. I knew what was at stake. I knew…” She trailed off, looking out at the street.
“Knew what?”
She turned back to me, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I knew I would bring children into a life they didn’t choose,” she said, reaching up to stroke my cheek.
“You paid the price of your mother loving a bad man. I’m sorry for that.
But I need you to know, I did love him. Dearly.
With everything I had. And then you were born, and as soon as you picked up a wooden spoon in this very kitchen, I saw a chance to pour all of me into you.
Not him. Your father did bad things, but he is not a bad man.
You are not a bad man. I think I get to have an opinion. I know bad men. That is not you.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I see him when I look into your eyes,” she continued, “but I feel our heritage when you share your heart with me. You are a good man, Raffaele Voscari. Never doubt that.”
I had always put my mother on a pedestal.
She was my hero. Most little boys look up to their fathers.
They want to be like their dads. Not me.
I wanted to be like my mom. She was always so strong.
So resilient. Talking to her like this and seeing her vulnerability, her regrets, her fierce love made me respect her more.
She was an incredibly strong woman who had made impossible choices and somehow raised me to be better than the world she’d been born into.
To me, she was a hero. I didn’t know how she managed to keep me out of the life. I knew there had to be a lot of pressure on her from the family and other members of the organization. I never felt any of that pressure.
Because she stood in front of me. She protected me. My mother had encouraged me to do whatever I wanted.
Damn. She really was a superhero.
“Thank God you were a good cook,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Unlike Auntie Luciana. If she’d been my mother, I’d be just like the rest of them.”
Mama laughed. “Auntie Luciana can’t boil water without burning it.”
We both chuckled, and for a moment it felt like old times, just mother and son, sharing a meal and easy conversation.
“Thank you for listening,” I said. “I needed this.”
She squeezed my hand. “You know, I know another good listener who would love the chance to hear all about your life. Someone who misses you dearly.”
I stiffened. “Mama.”
“When was the last time you visited your father?”
“You know when.”
“Six months ago. For fifteen minutes. That’s not a visit, that’s an obligation.”
I pulled my hand away. “He made his choices.”
“And you’re making yours. But son, holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
I stared down at my plate, not wanting to have this conversation. But my mother had a way of pushing exactly the buttons that needed pushing.
“He’s still your father,” she said gently. “And despite everything, he loves you. He’s proud of what you’ve become.”
“Proud that I rejected everything he stood for?”
“Proud that you became everything he couldn’t. Proud that you had the courage to do what no one else has. And you did it right. You did it with respect. You didn’t turn your back on your family. You simply chose another path.”
I sipped my wine. “I’m busy right now. I have a lot of things on my plate.”
“Running away won’t change anything.”
“I’m not running away. I’m choosing not to engage with people who make my life more complicated than it needs to be.”
“People like your father? Or people like Clementine?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
I couldn’t answer that. Because the truth was, it wasn’t different at all. I was walking away from both of them for the same reason—because caring about people meant getting hurt. Because letting people in meant giving them the power to disappoint you.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“That’s all I ask.” She smiled and reached for the wine bottle. “Now, tell me more about this girl. Because if she’s got you this torn up, she must be very special indeed.”
“You met her, Mama.”
“I did. I liked her. But son?” She shook her head. I felt the lecture coming. “Why? Did I not teach you better than that?”
“She doesn’t want to be involved with me. I respect that. It’s too complicated.”
She scoffed. “Nonsense.”
“It’s not just that she doesn’t want to be involved,” I said, swirling the wine in my glass. “She shouldn’t be. Not with me. Not right now.”
My mother raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet, letting me work through it.
“You know how brutal this industry is, Ma. How hard it is to make a name for yourself, especially as a woman. Clem’s got real talent.
More than talent. She’s got this pure love for food, for bringing people together.
It’s beautiful to watch.” I paused, remembering the way her face lit up when she talked about family dinners and feeding people who needed it most. “But she’s twenty-four.
She’s just starting out. If she gets tangled up with me and my reputation? ”
“Your reputation isn’t who you are.”
“Doesn’t matter. Perception is reality in this business.
You know that.” I finished the wine in my glass.
“The media will tear her apart. They’ll always write about her connection to me instead of about her cooking.
Every review, every opportunity, it’ll all be filtered through who she’s sleeping with. That’s not fair to her.”
My mother was quiet for a long time. “And how do you feel about that?”
I laughed. “I feel like I should be lying on a couch.”
“You don’t fool me, son. I know. I see.”
I sighed. “I don’t like it but I know it’s for the best. I won’t sully her reputation. It’s not fair to her.”
“I don’t like it either.”
“I know.”
“You need a good woman. I need grandchildren.”
I laughed. “I have to go. I’ve heard this part before. I’m working on it.” I stood and bent down to kiss her cheek. “Goodbye.”