Aldo
I arrived in the kitchen late the next morning—to ensure Layla had already left for work—to find an unexpected visitor awaiting me with crossed arms.
I bit back a groan of dismay at the sight of the tiny Italian woman in my kitchen. “Hello, Mother.”
“So good to see you, Vasco.” Melissa Marcello hovered beside the kitchen window, bathed in sunlight that turned the grey streaks of her hair to silver highlights. She stood a grand total of four feet ten inches, but the way she could glare down a grown man, one might never have guessed her height disadvantage.
Now, with her hands on her hips, lips pursed, face twisted in judgment, I knew I was in for a reckoning.
Still, I crossed the room to her, leaned in to place a kiss on each of her cheeks. As a good Italian son should do for hi
