Free Diagnosis: Danger by Marie Ferrarella

worked her way through the crowd and presented her second son with an oversized piece of cake.
    To the amusement of his parents, Sofia and her husband, Jake, the guest of honor had just christened his nose with whipped chocolate frosting by bobbing his face into the plate on his high-chair tray. Alan was wearing his birthday cake and loving it.
    “Does this give you any ideas?” Josephine asked, pushing the plate into his hands.
    After one of his mother’s typical six-course meals, there was no room left over for a spoonful of gelatin, much less a piece of cake, but he accepted the plate, knowing that if he didn’t her feelings would be hurt. She’d baked the cake, too.
    Even so, it was obvious that his mother wasn’t referring to the cake. Mike laughed and kissed her on the forehead just beneath her widow’s peak.
    “You’re a great many things, Ma,” he told her affectionately, “but subtle isn’t one of them.”
    Josephine sniffed, settling in beside her son. There was almost a foot difference.
    “I wasn’t trying to be subtle, I was trying to become a grandmother again—in the proper order,” she emphasized before Mike could give her that wicked wink that’d had females of all ages melting around him since her son had reached puberty. “First marriage, then baby.”
    He wouldn’t have had it any other way. But for the moment, he was in no hurry for either. His present lifestyle suited him just fine.
    “’Fraid you’ve got a long wait then, Ma. Whydon’t you just enjoy what you have?” He nodded toward his sister, who was blossoming with her third child. Her first go-round had resulted in twins. For Theresa’s sake, he hoped she wouldn’t be overwhelmed again. “Aren’t you the one who always tells me to count my blessings?”
    Josephine was not about to be distracted. “One of those blessings should be a wife.”
    He tried to look at his mother as solemnly as possible, but the slight curve at the corner of his mouth gave him away. “Sorry, Ma, but you’ve spoiled me for any other woman.”
    The dismissive snort told him that his mother wasn’t buying any of this. “The problem is that in your line of work you don’t meet any nice girls, Michael. They’re either harlots or dead.”
    Mike choked on his cake. From out of nowhere, his mother produced a glass of wine. Mike took a long drink, clearing his throat. “Nobody says harlots anymore, Ma.”
    “Your mother does,” his father said, his voice mild as he came up behind them. He draped one still-muscular arm—a trophy of fifty years as a skilled tile layer—along his son’s shoulders. His father turned his face toward him. “Need rescuing?”
    Mike glanced toward his mother before answering. He had genuine affection for her. For both his parents. But he wished that she could be content weaving in and out of his siblings’ lives. Carl wasn’tmarried, but he was engaged and it was beginning to look serious for Matt and his girl. Theresa was working on her third child and Sofia had Alan. Only he and Claudia were unattached and he had a feeling she might be capitulating soon.
    “I need someone to change the topic,” he told his father.
    Salvatore pretended to frown. “Are you trying to marry him off again?” He wasn’t fooling anyone. Everyone who knew the couple knew that, as far as Sal was concerned, nothing his wife said or did ever merited censure. Married on his twenty-first birthday, thirty-three years later he still doted on her.
    Josephine didn’t answer her husband’s question. Instead, she looked at her son and sighed deeply. “Well, someone has to be concerned about him. Look at him.” She gestured at him with both hands. “Thirty years old and no prospects. What kind of an Italian boy is that?” she demanded.
    “A smart one.” Sal chuckled. The remark had been aimed at Mike. Looking now at his wife, he pretended to be properly sobered. “Just kidding, Josie.”
    Curious, Carl had come up to join the small