Page 98 of Someone Exactly Like Me (Wounded Hearts 1)
“Come,” he says, taking my hand in his. He walks us down a dimly lit hallway, passing an open door on the right to a bedroom. “That was Marco’s room.” Walking a little farther down the hall, we enter a small room on the left where I feel like I’ve been transported back in time. “And this is my room.”
He guides me in and releases my hand. Walking slowly around the room, I take it in. He sits on the edge of his single bed.
“You upgraded.” I smile. He looks huge sitting on the small bed.
He chuckles. “I did.”
Everything is perfectly tidy and looks like his mamma hasn’t changed a thing since he left home. Next to the bed is an old wood dresser topped with nine trophies and a picture that looks like it’s him and Marco as young boys.
“You played soccer?”
“Yes, football. I’m a very good player.”
“I see that.”
“Of course I don’t play anymore.”
There aren’t any decorations on the walls. Even through the house, the decor is minimal and humble.
“Is there anything else you would like to see? I will show you.”
I walk over to him on the bed and look down into his handsome face. Being here in his childhood bedroom, I can see the little boy behind his eyes.
“No.” I pause. “Thank you for showing this to me.”
He stands and I tilt my head up, keeping his gaze as he rises above me. “It’s my pleasure.”
We stand, silent, eyes fixed on each other in the quiet of the room.
“Nicco, who’s Ana?” I ask, keeping my voice hushed.
“No one. She — she’s no one.” He purses his lips as he glances down.
“It didn’t sound like she’s no one. But it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, I don’t.” The anger from earlier is gone, replaced by something more like sorrow. He exhales through his nose. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.”
Taking my hand in his again, he leads me back down the hall to the living room and must tell his mamma we’re leaving because she gets out of her chair.
He releases my hand and lowers toward her. When she reaches up and clutches his face in her hands, she speaks softly and tears come to her eyes as she smiles. After their cheek-kisses, she wraps her arms around his waist, burying her cheek into his chest. He cages her in his arms, resting a hand on her silver curls. My heart tugs watching this virile, shooting-to-fame, seemingly-sex-god so tender in the embrace of his mamma.
Unwrapping from him, she turns to me.
“Grazie, Antonietta.” As I go in for the cheek-kiss, she speaks.
“Per favore, chiamami, Mamma,” she says, then cups my face in her soft, weathered hands.
Clueless, I nod my head and smile, trying to be polite.
Nicco chuckles. “She likes you. She wants you to call her Mamma.”
“Oh.” That’s unexpected.
“Buona notte, Mamma,” he says as he takes my hand and leads us to the door.
“Buona notte,” she says, blowing us a kiss and waving.
