That Anthony was.
“Melina’s waving me over,” Mac said, using another passing server to drop his staring contest with Anthony and move toward his wife on the middle of the dance floor.
Melina hadn’t been looking at him, or waving him over.
But she was now …
Good enough, Mac thought.
“What if he wants to chat?” Bobby asked at Mac’s back.
“He doesn’t want to chat,” Mac assured. “He wants to irritate the living shit out of me because he’s got himself ten years on my button, and he likes to remind me every fucking chance he can.”
All of that was true.
Mac would handle Anthony another time, and give the asshole the respect he was due for his position and time in la famiglia. But at the same time, Mac wasn’t a liar, and he wasn’t going to pretend to be interested in Anthony’s nonsense.
And he was in no mood to play Anthony Corelli’s games—not tonight. It was his wedding, and that was far more important than any stupid shit Anthony wanted to talk about with Mac.
Melina was more important.
This whole day was far more important.
“Could I interrupt?”
Mac felt Melina’s lips curve into a gentle smile at the sound of his mother’s voice. She had tapped Melina’s shoulder, stopping their dance.
Melina stepped away from him, and he immediately wanted to bring her closer, but his mother looked far too happy for him to refuse the hand she was holding out. He took Cynthia’s hand in hers, giving Melina a wink over his mother’s shoulder.
“Don’t go too far,” he told her, “we’re not finished, doll, we’ve got a long night yet.”
Cynthia laughed, but Mac couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed that his mother had heard the underlying promise in his words to his wife. Why should he be embarrassed?
The sweetest pink flushed Melina’s cheeks, however, and as much as she tried to give him a stern look, she failed.
“Where’s she going to go?” Victoria said, sliding in beside Melina. “She needs to have a family dance, too. And that’s why I’m here. Melina?”
The song changed, keeping that slow tempo.
Spotlights from up above came on, lighting the dancefloor with a giant circle, and drawing in the attention of the guests to the four people dancing in the middle.
Mac with his mother.
Melina with Victoria.
Cynthia’s hand brushed Mac’s shoulder, like she was wiping away invisible dirt. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you earlier, but you look very handsome.”
Mac grinned. “Don’t I always look that way, Ma?”
“That arrogance of yours is going to get you into trouble someday.”
Probably not.
Mac didn’t tell his mother that, though.
“And Melina looks beautiful,” his mother continued.
“She does,” he agreed, giving his wife a look.
And she did.
Everything about her—every inch of Melina—screamed beauty, grace, sex, and his.
Entirely his.
Mac focused his attention on his mother for the moment, knowing the end of the night would come soon enough, and he would have the next week on a white-sand beach to show his wife just how beautiful he thought she was.
Cynthia watched Mac with a soft smile and even gentler eyes. The very tips of her fingers patted his cheek in that way she used to do to him when he was child and had done something sweet that made her happy.
“What, Ma?” he asked quietly.
“I did something right—in my life, with you and Victoria, I did something right, James.”
Mac almost stumbled in his steps, surprised at his mother’s confession. “What would make you think any differently, Ma?”
Cynthia patted his back, almost like she wanted to wave away his words or soothe his concerns. “Maybe for a long while, I had assumed somehow that I failed. I wasn’t a good enough wife—not good enough to keep your father home, or away from a bottle, or even to keep him from pissing his life away.”
“None of that was your fault. He chose those things, not you. Your worth is not determined by his mistakes, Ma.”
“It was for a long time,” she replied softly. “And then I had to worry about you and your sister, too. I thought I was failing you two. You had no real father, we struggled all the time, and where could we possibly go?”
“Ma.” Mac stopped their dance, wanting his mother to look at him instead of focusing on the wall behind him or the tapestries that had been hung for the wedding reception. “You were—are—the best mother. You survived, and that’s not failing, Ma.”
She nodded. “But do you know how long it took me to figure that out, James?”
“How long?”
His mother patted his cheek again, teary-eyed and smiling. “This moment. I was going to tell you to treat your wife well, and to love her like she deserves.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything different, Ma.”
“Exactly. I did something right, and that is not failing.”
Because she had taught him those things. How to love, how to care, protect, and cherish.
Cynthia Maccari had done that.