Page 162 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

“How you know I’m Richard and not Frederick?” I smirk.

She mirrors my smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I would know my son anywhere. Besides, I think it’ll be, what, six years, almost seven, that my son isn’t able to come to Mass with me anymore?”

“Your son? So you and Fred were close then?”

She tsks, squeezing my hands in hers. “If you’re asking if I knew he and Gio were close, then yes, I did. A mother always knows, Richard. I’m sure even dear Ayani knew her Frederick liked the company of boys as well as girls.”

Her thumbs caress the tops of my hands as her eyes peer into mine. There’s a sort of peace in them, and not knowing if it’s from the morning Mass or if she knows why I’m visiting her bothers me.

And then I decide, I’m not gonna murk this nigga’s mom. Mars’s grandmother, or Nonna, I’m sure she’ll go by.

Snow is making me too soft.

“And you’re okay with it? With Gio?” I ask, leaning back into the pew. Might as well get comfortable if I’m deviating from my plan.

Fiorella’s lips twitch. “God made us in His image, and though we’re not perfect and have a sinful nature, He loves us anyway. Who am I to think I’m better than God and pass judgment on anyone, let alone my children? All I want is for them to be happy. They’re finally safe, but none of them are happy.”

“I heard Catholics are never happy.”

Fiorella huffs are quiet laughter. “That may be true. But a mother can dream.”

She stands and holds out her hand to me like she could help me up, and even though it’s absurd, I let her. I’m starting to think part of the reason Fredo stayed with Slime was because of this woman. We all tried to collect mothers, but there were so few to go around. Reem’s mother Trina took years to be okay after her youngest son Angelo was killed. And our grandmothers were hardbody. They loved us, but sweet words, they didn’t have.

But maybe all this is freedom from the bullshit tyranny she was under. When muthafuckas are trying to survive, it’s no time for sweet words and comfort. Fiorella was probably the same as our mother figures, back when her kids needed it the most.

“Gio doesn’t want me walking home alone, but none of his security is here this morning. Would you walk an old woman home?”

Holding out my crooked arm, I nod. “Of course. That gives me time to put you up on game.”

The weather is mild since the sun is still rising. Her church is only down the street from her house, a selling point I’m sure. Still can’t believe a woman as religious as Fiorella Jackson is cool with her son being bi, but now, it makes me wonder why he isn’t out yet. Fredo’s been dead for years, and while they probably had been messing around since they started being all buddy-buddy, the way them hoes Haze ran through got down, I would think Slime at least got his rocks off while he was mourning my brother. Or maybe not, since he’s trying to be the next Black president.

“You have to come see me more often, Richard. You kids grow up and forget about those who was changing your dirty diapers.” Fioerlla lightly pinches my arm before rubbing her hand to soothe the invisible pain.

“I would see you more if you didn’t move out the Towers. Came all the way down to the South East to be with the Italians. You know you a project baby.”

She laughs in earnest now, shaking against me. “Richard! I just would rather be close to my church. I’m always in the Birch, whenever Gio does outreach.”

I grunt, over talking about her oldest child. While Fiorella has unknowingly spared herself, all that means is someone else near to him will have to pay.

“Well, I’ll be by soon, fasho. Um, well, Fredo… he had a kid before he died. Well, Mars was born after he died, but–”

“A child?” she whispers, stopping her walk to stare with stretched eyes.

“A son,” I nod.

I can hear the gears turning in her head, before a wide smile spreads, her eyes turning into slits.

“With the girl, huh? The young one?”

I arch my brow, and continue our walk. “All I can tell you is, he’s six, and he looks just like Fred, and you’ll probably be bawling when you first meet him.”

“I can’t wait,” she sniffles. “I’ll bet he’ll love my cannoli like his father.”

Her front door opens, and G barrels out. It only takes half a second for him to see us, and Fiorella stiffens, almost sliding behind me as we stop on the corner of her lawn.

“Ma. Get in the house,” he barks.

“You don’t need to talk to ya mama like that, nigga,” I bark back, my hand sliding to my back holster.