A Waltz With Wolves (Book II in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Eight: Curiosity And the Cat

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It takes all my willpower to get out of my car. Parked outside of my mother's house, I'm forced to believe that the moment I set foot on the porch, I'll no longer be safe. But still, I know I should do this.

The street my mother lives on is quiet and wealthy. Not as wealthy as Sebastian's neighborhood, of course, but wealthier than where we lived when I was younger—the Ciglianos are successful restaurateurs in Italy, but it took a while for that success to make its way to my mom here in the states. I saw it after my parents divorced but wanted nothing to do with it, especially after I left for college.

"I wasn't going to pay for your schooling anyway," my mother told me the moment I declined any financial assistance for my education from her.

My heels sound loudly against the pavement; I'm sure she hears me coming. My mother has supersonic senses that I believe I've adopted, too. The lights in the house are on, and I see shadows moving about. I don't hear anything, though; maybe my supersonic sense of 'hearing' isn't as great as I believe it is.

I ring the doorbell reluctantly and am welcomed to my little sister when the door finally opens. Not much has changed in terms of Samantha's appearance—still beautifully tanned and dark haired with the same tall, curvy figure as my mom. But not only has her appearance gone unchanged, but her attitude towards me, as well.

"Hi, Leslie," Samantha says, lacking any emotion in her voice.

"Hello, Samantha."

She lets me inside the house that happens to be almost unfamiliar due to how rarely I visit. When the door closes behind us, I hear my mom's voice.

"Cara, chi è?"

"Who is it?" she asked. I can tell by her slurring that she's drunk again.

"Leslie, mom," Samantha replies.

I already know that my mother's face is twisting and distorting at the sound of my name. I take off my coat and set it on the coat rack—mother hates jackets or coats on in the house.

She enters the room in her royal blue satin robe with a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other. My eyes avert to Samantha to see her reaction, but she's more used to this than I am. In all honesty, it makes me feel bad for her, how she's caught in my mother's web of pity and the need to take care of her.

"Here to beg not to press charges for assaulting me?" is the first thing she says to me, broken English and all. I force myself to hide the grimace that wants to surface. If I want to make this visit successful, I need to give her the benefit of the doubt. Frankly, making her believe I was wrong for pushing her at the party even though she warranted the reaction is the road I need to take.

"Nice to see you too, mother."

Samantha leads herself into the kitchen promptly. Mother kisses her check before she leaves us; her eyes stare at me the entire time over the cigarette smoke.

The room is quiet when my little sister is gone. Wordlessly, Mother walks into the living room and I follow her. The décor is still the same—rustic burgundy and deep browns with a myriad of family portraits on the walls, my father and I in none of them. The fireplace crackles softly on the other end, making me wonder if leaving my mother near a going-fire is the smartest idea.

I doubt even having a functioning fireplace in June is a smart idea, either.

Mother plops down on the love seat while I sit on the couch. I block the putrid scent of nicotine from entering my lungs when she expels it from her mouth.

"You're here because you want something, yes?" she asks me.

"I just need to talk to you."

"I see." The leather chair squeaks underneath her as she gets comfortable. "What happened when I wanted to talk with you about giving Samantha a job?"