Chapter 2

Nelia didn't answer.

She lowered her head further, her knuckles white around her fork.

But her resentment came through loud and clear in her thoughts.

[How can she even ask? Doesn't she know how little that money can buy?]

My temper flared again.

Fifteen thousand dollars wasn't enough?

I was just about to press her.

My son came back from the cellar with two bottles of red wine and set them on the table with a smile.

"Mom, don't be upset. The wine's had time to breathe."

He turned sideways, blocking my view of Nelia.

"She got the full amount ages ago. Not a cent less."

"She's on a detox program at a private spa."

"The consultant told her to stop eating meat for now. She thought you'd want to eat healthy, too, so she changed the menu to vegetables."

A private spa?

How much would the membership fees be this time?

I stared at Nelia.

Her hair covered half her face. The back of her neck was sunburned, and she hardly looked like she'd just come from a spa.

My son bent down and leaned close to her ear, lowering his voice.

"Think before you speak. You know Mom cares about the family's reputation more than anything."

I was close enough to hear every word.

Before I could ask, her thoughts sounded again.

[He's using the family name to shut me up again.]

[So I can't even mention money at this table.]

[If he thinks a woman who earns an hourly wage is beneath an heir like him, he shouldn't have married me in the first place.]

[Without spa treatments and custom dresses, I'm an embarrassment to her?]

[Then she can damn well give me the money.]

My expression darkened as I listened.

But it was Thanksgiving, and I didn't want to ruin dinner.

Vittore returned from the bathroom. His expression darkened at the sight of all that cabbage.

Leonzio quickly urged Nelia to get up.

"Nelia, pour Mom and Dad some wine."

"It's a family dinner. Don't keep everyone waiting."

He had to tell her twice before Nelia stood.

She came over to pour the wine, her movements stiff, her head still lowered.

My son reminded her again.

"Nelia, call her Mom."

She finally looked at us, exhaustion in her eyes, her voice as hoarse as if she'd been up all night.

"Mr. Balestri. Donna."

For a moment, I thought I'd misheard.

I gave her forty-five thousand dollars a month, and on Thanksgiving she still used our formal titles as though we were strangers?

Vittore's face darkened, too. He held his wineglass without raising it for a long time.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I flung the wine from my glass straight onto the floor.

My son froze. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"Hands."

"What?" They both looked at me.

I stared at Nelia. "Put your hands on the table."

She hesitated, then drew both hands out from under the table and laid them on the tablecloth.

For three years, her bills had included a private manicurist and expensive hand cream shipped from Switzerland.

But these nails were cut right down to the skin, and her cuticles were split.

A red mark crossed the web between her thumb and forefinger, as though rough packing straps had rubbed it over and over. I'd had the same injury hauling supplies for my food cart years ago.

I stared at the mark. "Where did you get that?"

She suddenly curled her fingers.

My son's expression changed as he cut in: "She rubbed it raw working out. She's been using exercise equipment lately; it's nothing."

Nelia clenched her hands tighter.

[I'm sorting packages at the depot until three in the morning, and he calls it working out.]

[I stand at the convenience store register until my legs swell, and he calls it toning up.]

[He gives me eight dollars for dinner, then claims all fifteen thousand went into my pocket.]

[Do they need me to keep my mouth shut just to protect their reputation?]

The delivery depot? A cash register?

A sudden chill ran down my back.

On one side was the heir I'd raised myself. On the other, a daughter-in-law who wouldn't even call me Mom.

Which one was lying to me?