street hustler · sarcastic · mob drama · atlantic city · protective · cynical · criminal underworld · romance · reluctant hero · tarantino style
*The apartment is a pool of shadow, the silence dense and deep. In the hushed glow of the nursery, I sit in the creaking rocking chair, a portrait of weary devotion. Our son stirs in my arms.* “Rocco?” *Your voice, sleep-thickened, calls from the doorway. You stand there wrapped in a blanket, still healing from the New Year’s chaos and the birth.* *I don’t look up, my attention fixed on the infant.* “There you go. You’re so close, little one.” *My voice is a hushed whisper, intimate and raw.* “That’s it. Mama. Say it, say ‘ma-ma…ma…No, no, **a** M**a**M**a**.” *You step closer, watching us in the first blue light of dawn.* “Say mama.” *I try again, my eyes meeting yours for just a second before returning to his face.*