Murder & Mother Wounds
Chapter fifty-one
Declan
The call with my brother is quick, efficient, the way it always is.
He talks, I listen. He doesn’t mince words, never has.
When I got really serious about soccer, he used to say I wasted my charm on the pitch when I should’ve been using it at the table.
I told him I’d rather kick a ball than kneecaps. We still argue about it.
When he finishes telling me what I need to know, I exhale slowly and slip into the tongue that still feels like home, even after all these years.
“Grazie per averlo gestito. Ciao.” Thank you for handling it. Bye.
I hang up and turn to Marlow, who is perched on the edge of the sofa, eyes wide like she’s bracing herself for some great revelation.
“Shaun Kennedy,” I begin, “wasn’t working alone.
My brother found out he’d partnered with a hacker.
A very good one. This man was tracking celebrity phones, pulling data, texts, even locations.
But Niko sniffed him out.” I allow a smirk.
“Threatened him within an inch of his life. And suddenly, the man remembered how to sing.”
Marlow blinks, slow. “That doesn’t sound scary…or illegal… at all.” The sarcasm drips like honey.
I shrug, leaning back. “Niko made sure to wipe all of the evidence he had against us and in the next forty-eight hours, Kennedy will be reassigned to Europe. Season-long coverage. Far, far away.”
Her jaw drops. “How did you pull that off? Who are you people? And more importantly—who are my in-laws? Because, Declan Agassi, you all sound… pretty badass.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. If only she knew.
So I tell her.
The version I’ve never put into words for anyone else, but for her, for my wife, I will.
“I told Coach Saunders once about my mother. About how she left in the middle of the night, how we had to run. But what I didn’t say—what I never say—is why.
My father…” I pause, grounding myself, “…was the right hand to my uncle. The head of the Agassi Crime Syndicate.”
She gasps, clutching her chest like I just confessed to burying bodies in the backyard. “Your family murders people?”
“That is not even remotely what I said,” I reply, my tone flat.
She narrows her eyes. “Declan, when you put the words crime and syndicate in the same sentence, murder is always implied!”
I glance around like the walls might have ears. “Would you lower your voice? You want the neighbors thinking I’m hosting a Sopranos reunion in here?”
Her eyes widen, but there’s a smirk tugging at her lips. “Fine. I’ll whisper. Please, Don Declan, continue.”
I shoot her a look but press on, pushing up from the couch. “Someone betrayed my uncle,” I say, heading toward the kitchen like I need the movement to work this out of me. “And that someone was my mother.”
She joins me in the kitchen, arms folded, perched against the counter as I pull the tray of dough I’d rolled out earlier. The motion of dusting flour on the board steadies me.
“Initially, everyone thought it was my father. That he’d staged the perfect power move—kill his own brother to take control of the Syndicate.
It made sense. He was my uncle’s right hand, his shadow, the one everyone feared he’d become if he ever got a taste of power.
So when my uncle ended up dead, all fingers pointed to him. ”
I press the heel of my palm into the dough, stretching it, folding it over itself again.
“But the truth was even more brutal. Because it was my mother. She slit the throat of the most dangerous man in Italy—and vanished before anyone could prove it. She left us there, in the wreckage, with a whole world of enemies convinced it was my father’s doing.
And when the whispers grew too loud, when revenge started circling our doorsteps, we had to run. Argentina…anywhere but home.”
I glance at Marlow, her face a mix of horror and disbelief, and reach for the ricotta filling, spooning it into the dough.
“Now, my mother runs the Syndicate. With Niko at her side. My brother may be charming, but don’t let him fool you—he’s sharper than anyone gives him credit for. Ruthless, when he has to be.”
My hands still for a moment, pinching the dough into neat little pillows. “She and I…my mother,” I let out a breath, shaking my head. “…we still don’t speak. Haven’t since the day she left. Niko was more forgiving.”
The kitchen goes quiet except for the soft sound of my knife slicing the ravioli apart. A domestic picture, if not for the fact that I’ve just laid the truth of a crime dynasty at my wife’s feet.
Marlow’s voice softens, breaking through the silence. “And here I thought you were just being dramatic when you said you couldn’t handle me leaving. But now I see. You’ve got a crime-boss sized mother wound and I’m sure that’s not easy to mend.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”
She says it so easily—like naming my pain makes it smaller. A wound the size of a crime-boss mother. I laugh, but inside, the truth rolls heavier than I ever let on.
Because the second I knew Marlow was mine—the second I admitted I wanted her—fear dug its claws in.
What if it happened again? What if she woke up one morning and decided I wasn’t worth the fight?
The same hollow pit my mother left behind threatened to open up all over again, and I wasn’t sure I could survive reliving that kind of abandonment.
So I did what I’ve always done when the ache cuts too deep.
I buried it. Layer after layer, I inked it into my skin, turned pain into permanence, pretending the art could hold me together.
For a while, it worked—made me believe, made everyone else believe, I was fine.
But when the ink dried and the sting faded, the fear was still there. Louder. Heavier.
Coach Saunders made me face it. Made me see that I can’t control anyone else’s choices.
That my mother leaving wasn’t my fault. That if Marlow ever left, that wouldn’t be my fault either.
People choose. Sometimes they choose wrong.
Sometimes they choose to stay. But it isn’t on me to carry the weight of their weakness if they don’t.
It isn’t my fault if they don’t have the capacity to love me.
And when I finally let go of that desperate grip on control, I found something better waiting in the space it left behind. Her. All of her. The chance to really learn her, love her, give her what she needed instead of what my fear demanded.
I take her hand, twining my fingers through hers. “I wish I could take you home to meet the family in Argentina. Let them see who you are, what you mean to me.”
“I know. Me too,” she says.
I kiss the palm of her hand, lingering there like I can seal the vow into her skin. “Once the season ends, we’ll go. I promise. I’ll introduce you to all of my family’s Italian traditions.”
The thought alone makes me smile. Because when I found out her mother had Italian roots, it was like puzzle pieces clicking into place. I knew there was something familiar about her from the start—something that pulled at me, something that felt like home. Something that felt like forever.
Her smile, warm and teasing, steadies something in me. “Until then, you’re stuck with the Cinnamon Grove family traditions. There’s plenty of them, trust me. Biddy Mason Charter School is hosting their holiday bazaar next weekend, and the Strikers are major sponsors.”
I groan. “The bazaar, how could I forget? Games. Face paint. Kids.”
“And prizes,” she adds, lips twitching.
“And more children braiding my hair,” I mutter.
She nudges me. “Oh hush, you’ve come to enjoy it. Admit it. Meeting the fans, being part of the community…it’s good for you. And for them.”
I exhale, but the truth is, she’s right.
At first, I hated it. The parades, the handshakes, the small-town carnival energy.
But now, I look forward to the faces that light up when we show up.
To the way, even the smallest kid feels big when we stop to listen.
It isn’t home, not Italy, not Argentina.
But with Marlow’s hand in mine, it feels damn close.
I drop the ravioli into the pot, the steam curling upward like it’s trying to carry all the heaviness of my confession away with it. Wiping my hands on a towel, I move to the cabinet, open it, and pull out a small blue bottle. Without saying a word, I set it down in front of Marlow.
She blinks at it, like I’ve just handed her contraband. “What’s this for?”
I give her a look. A knowing one. “You fart in your sleep every time I feed you something with cheese. And lately, it’s gotten ten times worse.” I say, perfectly deadpan. “Leads me to believe you’re lactose intolerant…or whatever you Americans call it.”
Her gasp is so dramatic I almost laugh. She clutches the bottle to her chest like it’s a personal attack. “I will have you know, I do not fart in my sleep!”
I shrug. “Fine, Americana. Let’s say you don’t. But why don’t you take one, just in case one slips out in your sleep without you knowing?”
She bursts into laughter, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling as she gives me a playful shove. Then she actually pops the pill.
I let out a breath, leaning back against the counter as I watch her laugh—my favorite sound in the world. And I feel it again, the light she brings me, the way she makes all of this, all of me, bearable.