Constantine let go of me and began casually stroking his jaw. “Still nothing on, well, anything?”

“Easy there, cowboy. You’re the computer genius amongst us. I’m good, but not ‘big brother’ good.” She winked, and I could already tell I’d love her. “Emilia did text that she’ll have something for us soon,” she added as a woman in a cream-colored linen pantsuit appeared at the entrance holding a bottle of wine. “This is my mom, Angela. Mom, this is Juliette and Colin Carmichael.”

Angela zeroed in on Colin almost immediately, her gaze snapping between her son and Colin. Her lips parted, and the bottle dropped from her hand, hitting the hardwood floor. Miraculously, it didn’t shatter.

Colin stepped between us, staring at her as she launched into rapid-fire Italian, her now-empty hands moving a mile a minute.

Constantine responded just as fast, his tone sharp, his hands just as expressive.

Before I could even process what was happening, Angela abruptly turned, striding toward the wall of built-in shelves. She pulled down a framed photo, her movements quick and deliberate.

Little ridges of shock peppered my skin as Izzy wordlessly picked up the bottle of wine while Constantine bit out, “Ma,” before she held up the photo before him, lightly shaking it.

“What is it?” Colin asked.

Angela spun around, holding up the frame, and Constantine bowed his face against his palm.

“You have a son you didn’t tell me about. How could you keep a son hidden from me?” Her voice was raw with hurt and disbelief. She turned the framed photo toward Colin, her glossy eyes locked on his. “You could be twins,” she whispered. “This is your boy.”

I finally looked at the photo. A much younger Constantine stared back at me. A high school portrait.

Colin took the framed image from her, holding it so tight his knuckles whitened. “Don’t be mad at him.” He slowly looked up at her. “He just found out about me.”

Constantine’s head jerked up, his whole body tensing like he knew what was coming next.

Meanwhile, my own shoulders snapped back, bracing for what I could only assume would be a verbal barrage in Italian.

“She didn’t know who I was.” Constantine—my hero, the man who stood between me and bullets—now stood between me and his mother, his body a shield.

Angela’s breath hitched, her thick Italian accent sharpening her words. “How could she not know?”

Constantine answered her in quick, clipped Italian, his voice low but weighted.

Colin and I awkwardly peeked around him, trying to gauge her reaction.

Hudson disappeared from sight as if deciding that this wasn’t his business and that he didn’t need to be there.

“I can’t believe this,” Angela said when he finished talking. She motioned for him to step aside, presumably so she could look at her grandson.

“Hi.” Colin lifted his shoulders, becoming six instead of sixteen.