Page 17 of Stealing Home

Evan folded his arms and turned his face into the pillow. “Then at least control the circumstances of your death.”

Dom leaned closer to CJ so he could whisper to Lucia. “You hear how they talk to me? No respect for your father.”

CJ smiled. “You’re stalling.”

“Of course I’m stalling. Have you met my mother?” Both of them had, once, and that had been enough for Evan to quietly admit afterward that Dom’s personality made significantly more sense.

Celeste Rizzo was five-foot-three, spoke with her entire body, and could convey disappointment so powerfully through silence that more than once Dominic had confessed to things he’d only considered doing. She called at least three times a week, sent him frozen homemade lasagnas twice a month using an overnight shipper, and still asked whether he was wearing a jacket whenever San Diego’s temperature dropped below sixty-five. When they’d spoken two days ago, she’d asked if anything interesting was happening in his life.

He’d said no.

“Maybe I should wait until I get the DNA test back.”

Evan stared at him, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “You tell your mother everything because, for some reason, your family doesn’t understand boundaries.” Dom couldn’t disagree with any of that. “If she finds out that you waited to tell her…” He trailed off, and Dom frowned as he considered how she would react.

He unlocked his phone. “Maybe I should text her first.”

“No,” Evan and CJ said together.

He glared at them, then scrolled to his mother’s name. The phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Dominic? Are you all right?”

His stomach tightened. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You never call us in the middle of the day.”

“It’s nine-thirty.”

“Sweetheart,” she said on a laugh. “It’s nine-thirty in San Diego. It’s twelve-thirty in New Jersey.”

Shit. “I’m sorry, Ma.” Dom covered his face with his free hand. The time difference. “I forgot. I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys at work. I can call you back later.”

“We’re taking lunch right now,” she said quickly. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Are you in trouble?”

Dom hesitated, and CJ groaned next to him.

His mother went silent, which was worse than yelling. “Dominic Luca.”

“I’m not in trouble,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out how to say what I need to say.”

His mom was quiet for exactly one second.

“Frank!” she shouted, her voice muffled as she pulled the phone away. “Something’s wrong.”

“Ma,” Dom protested.

Next to him, Lucia squirmed and let out a small cry, and his mother gasped.

“What was that, Dominic?”

Dominic closed his eyes. There were probably better ways to do this. Thoughtful, carefully structured ways that did not involve blurting out life-changing news over the phone while his friends were simultaneously supporting him and watching him suffer like spectators at a public execution. He’d never been particularly gifted at thoughtful structure.

“That was a baby,” he answered quietly. He put the call on speaker and placed the phone on the couch cushion next to him.