Inizio (COMPLETED)

17. Past Reveal

My mother's 5'3 figure stood at the door. She had her brown hair in a bob and her face held few wrinkles, even at her age of 49. Her thicc figure stood out in her somewhat tight, black shirt. She had on a white blazer with black leggings and flats.

I see she still tries to dress young...

She looked at me, shocked.

"Zhara," she exclaimed. She pushed past me and looked me up and down as if to make sure I was in one piece.

"Mama, what are you doing here? Why didn't you call? How'd you get here? How'd you-,"

She ignored me and turned to face Marco who had since hung up. Her features tightened into a scowl.

"You! Where is your father," she pointed at him, stomping over to his desk. He looked surprised and stepped back a bit.

"Um.. he's not here. I run this branch now, he doesn't. Who might you be," he asked looking from her to me, then back to her.

"Put him on the phone." She said with her Armenian accent. Marco was still in shock.

"NOW!" He quickly dialed his father.

"Put him on speaker," she said suddenly calming down. I was so confused and walked up to her as the phone rang.

"Mama, inch' e katarvum? How do you know him," I asked gently grabbing her arm and turning her to face me.
(Translation: what's going on)

"You called to tell me you work for Rossi Fiorentino's son." I didn't know if she was going to continue or if that was it.

"Yes... I did. So?"

"So," she huffed and rubbed her manicured fingers across her forehead. She was thinking.

"Mam-,"

"Zhara you weren't supposed to find out like this. You weren't even supposed to find out at all. Your father, agh mardy yerbek' ch'i karoghanum durs gal dzhvarut'yunnerits'," she grumbled.
(Translation: man could never stay out of trouble)

"What are you talking about? What does this have to-,"

"Figlio, how are you," Mr. Fiorentino's voice cut in on the line. My mother directed her now angry attention to the phone.

"Papa there's a-,"

"ROSSI? Eh?! YOU SAID YOU'D TAKE CARE OF THE BASTARD! WHAT IS THIS I'M HEARING ABOU-,"

"HEY,HEY,HEY," Mr. Fiorentino's loud voice rang through the phone. My mom quieted down almost immediately. "Anahid, is that you," he asked.

"Sí, Rossi," she said slowly. I felt as though she was going to erupt again. I looked over at Marco who was deep in thought. He had rolled up his sleeves, crossed his arms over his chest, and was rubbing his stubble.

"What are you doing in LA?"

"Wrong question, Rossi," she said through gritted teeth.

"Okay...What happened," Mr. Fiorentino said. My mom shifted on her feet and grabbed the phone. She put it up to her mouth and started speaking slow.

"Pietro sent me a letter. A letter and roses. There was a fresh one, one dying one, and one dead one."

"What? What did the letter say," asked Mr. Fiorentino. My mom clenched her hand by her side, putting the phone closer to her mouth.

"You want to know what the letter said? You want to know what the letter said," she asked, her voice raising each time. " WELL I CAN'T FUCKING TELL YOU BECAUSE I DON'T READ DEATH THREATS OR ITALIAN!" I jumped at her yelling.