DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Terrence: I hate running.

Me: You are very hateful this morning, Mr Bodyguard.

Terrence: I am a hearty hater, what can I say?

Me: I never asked you to follow me through the gardens. You could have stayed in your room and had a lie-in.

Terrence. Leaving you without the protection of a bodyguard is against the rules, Miss Emma.

Me: I apologise for keeping you fit.

Terrence: Two hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle can forgo cardiovascular activities. I hit enough iron in the gym.

Me: Two hundred and forty pounds?

Terrence: Yes, Miss Emma.

Me: You are a tank.

Terrence: If you want to look at it that way, then yes.

"Your room is lovely." My mother's fingernails dug into the palm of her hand as she inventoried the old-fashioned furniture and the empty wine bottles strewn over the floor. "Do you drink often?"

These days, I consume whatever I can get my hands on.

Alcohol is the best depressant to numb emotional pain.

"I am not a pisshead." I felt the need to defend myself. "But sometimes I like to kick back with a bottle of wine. It helps me relax."

My mother stood by the window, looking drearily at the wandering peacocks with iridescent blue and green feathers curving along the wet grass.

"I used to love a glass of port when I was younger." Her brittle voice was not easily detectable amidst disconsolateness. "I would meet with friends every Friday and attend social clubs for a disco marathon or a game of bingo. Those were some of the best days of my life."

Martha had never talked about her past to me before. "But you hate alcohol and music halls. You said entertainment-seekers were immature and foolish, that drunken mortals made reckless errors of judgement." I gave her a short, caustic laugh. "Indulgence is contrary to God's Will."

"Humble yourself, Emma." My mother's soft, non-judgmental gaze toured my face for a few uncomfortable seconds, and then her eyes went back to the window. "I raised five beautiful children." Her throat dipped as she swallowed. "And they all hate me."

"Your children were not raised by loving parents. They were dragged up by cruel dictators," I said, short and spiteful. "Can you blame them for bitter familial warfare? I meant what I said last night. You are no better than the man responsible for the bruise on your face."

And then, as if my emotions were not already shunted from pillar to post, I had to show a lack of concern when her hand flattened over her lips and stifled a strangled sob.

"It did occur to me." Her eyes were red from crying. "Your pain is of greater importance than my own. I could stand here until nightfall, explaining all the reasons why I closed my eyes when my husband tyrannised our children, but excuses will not pardon my sins or set me free."

Listening attentively, I sat on the foot of the bed with bated breath. "I should not be so understanding, but you trivialised draconian measures to protect yourself."

"At the cost of my darlings," Martha said, more to herself, than me. "I pay the price for cowardice every day when I sit alone in an empty home, reminiscing about those rare moments where my children were happy, despite the welts on their backs and the limp in their strides."

"You live in denial," I fulminated against the woman's delusional belief that the Hughes residence was nothing but tragic and lamentable. "There were no happy memories for your children, Martha."