Mother Hater, page 1
MOTHER HATER
THE MOM COMS
BOOK 4
DAPHNE ELLIOT
MELODY PUBLISHING, LLC
Copyright © 2024 by Daphne Elliot
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events in this book are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Melody Publishing, LLC
Editing by Beth Lawton at VB Edits
Proofreading by Morgan Evans
Cover design by Love Lee Creative (Madison Lee)
daphneelliot.com
Created with Vellum
To my dear friends, Jen, Britt, and Swati. Thank you for proving that supportive, uplifting, and life-changing female friendship doesn’t only exist in books. I love you all.
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Delia
2. Delia
3. Enzo
4. Enzo
5. Delia
6. Enzo
7. Delia
8. Enzo
9. Delia
10. Enzo
11. Delia
12. Enzo
13. Enzo
14. Enzo
15. Delia
16. Delia
17. Enzo
18. Enzo
19. Enzo
20. Delia
21. Delia
22. Delia
23. Enzo
24. Delia
25. Enzo
26. Delia
27. Enzo
28. Enzo
29. Delia
30. Delia
31. Delia
32. Enzo
33. Enzo
34. Delia
35. Enzo
36. Enzo
37. Delia
38. Enzo
39. Delia
40. Enzo
41. Enzo
42. Delia
43. Delia
44. Enzo
45. Delia
46. Enzo
47. Delia
48. Enzo
Series Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Daphne Elliot
PROLOGUE
ENZO
October
The Atlantic Country Club was one of the oldest and most elite in the US. The kind of place my grandfather would never have been welcome. In his day, the blue bloods wouldn’t have allowed their grass to be sullied by an Italian who swung a hammer for a living.
Today, though, I was here at the invitation of Beckett Langfield, Boston’s hometown billionaire, and Cortney Miller, a member of one of the most powerful real estate dynasties in the country and star catcher for the Revs. A man who, if rumors were true, would be retiring at the end of the season.
Our paths had crossed several times. The company had done work for both Langfield Industries and the Miller Estate over the years, but I usually dealt with managers and lawyers.
This invitation was unexpected, to say the least.
But word on the street was that the Boston Revs were building a new training facility, and I wanted that contract. So here I was. It was exactly what I needed to prove to my father that I was capable of running the company on my own.
Easing my dad into retirement had not been easy. The man loved to work, and it showed. DiLuca Construction had grown exponentially since my grandfather founded it in the 1940s.
We were a huge part of this city’s legacy. Boston. The birthplace of liberty. Philadelphia could fuck off. John Adams didn’t plot a revolution in their taverns. The sight of our crews, our logo on dorms and stadiums and office buildings, filled me with pride. As did being a part of the continued growth of this great city. I had plans not only to continue the family legacy, but to expand it.
Never in my life had I spent a Tuesday morning golfing. But a call from a Langfield or Miller did not go unanswered. And so I was here, wearing a goofy-ass collared golf shirt and these annoying fucking shoes.
The minute I pulled my truck into the parking lot, a skinny kid ran out to greet me.
“Mr. DiLuca,” he said, hauling my clubs from the back of my pickup. “Welcome to the Atlantic Club. Mr. Langfield and Mr. Miller are waiting for you at the bar.”
I was an outdoors kind of guy. Hiking and skiing and getting the fuck away from civilization. Golf, though an outdoor sport, was not my game, and the manicured, perfect grounds of these places always made me feel queasy.
Despite what my family had achieved in the last seventy years, I was still the grandson of immigrants. People who worked with their hands and struggled to make ends meet. So despite my corner office, fancy degrees, and penthouse condo, I would never truly belong in a place like this.
In the clubhouse, Langfield was waiting for me, wearing his famous scowl. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand and was pounding at his phone with one thumb. Concerning, given that it wasn’t quite nine a.m., but not unexpected, based on his reputation.
Miller sat on a stool next to him, head bowed over a crossword puzzle, his famous hair pulled into a man bun.
When Miller spotted me, they both jumped up to greet me. The reaction made the hairs on my arms stand up. For two of the richest men in the city, they were entirely too eager to meet me.
Langfield wasn’t actually dressed for golf. He was decked out in a dark suit. But Miller was wearing a goofy golf getup similar to mine. The only difference was that his outfit probably cost more than my car.
What the shit was going on?
“Have a seat,” Langfield said, gesturing to the stool beside his.
“We gonna play?” I asked.
“Yes,” he grumbled. “Eventually.”
Like that wasn’t shady as fuck. Good thing I was used to shady. A man doesn’t rise to the top of one of the most corrupt and cutthroat industries in this city without encountering all kinds of weird situations.
He sat stiffly as the bartender came over to take my order. “Coffee,” I said, giving the poor guy a smile. “Black.”
Between his eager greeting and his stuffy body language, Langfield was sending very mixed signals. What had I gotten myself into?
“We have a proposition for you,” Miller said, giving me a tense smile.
Strange, these meetings usually started with hours of small talk and actual golf. But I was a busy guy, so I admired how he cut to the chase.
I took a slow sip of my coffee and nodded. “What do you need?”
Miller opened his mouth like he was going to speak but closed it again.
“We have a project for you. Really interesting.” This was from Langfield.
I nodded coolly, mentally planning where I’d take my team for dinner tonight after I told them about the Revs’ new training facility.
“A restoration.”
What now? My stomach sank.
“A really unique property. Seventy-nine Montgomery Street. In the South End.”
Miller cleared his throat. “Big brownstone, lots of potential.”
Frowning, I looked between the two men. “Sorry,” I said, bringing my coffee cup to my lips to give myself a moment to think. “I’m not following. You have a house?”
Langfield drained the rest of his whiskey. “Yes. It’s quite large, and it needs some updating.”
“Mostly cosmetic stuff. The roof and wiring were recently replaced,” Miller jumped in. “It’ll be spectacular when it’s fully renovated.”
Every part of this interaction was stranger than the last. Why were they trying to sell me on an old house? Was this a prank? Some kind of initiation rite rich guys participated in?
“So sorry, guys. I don’t do that kind of work.” I set my coffee down, mentally cycling through excuses to get out of here before I was stuck playing eighteen holes with them. A day spent talking about details of an old house would be a waste I couldn’t afford. I had dozens of projects waiting, investor meetings on the calendar for later in the week, and hundreds of emails to deal with.
I didn’t want to burn bridges, but I needed to get out of here.
Langfield leaned forward on his elbows. “Sure you do. In fact, I’m positive you’d want to work on this house once you see it. Don’t all the dorms and luxury condos get boring after a while?”
What was his angle? “Does owning a baseball team get boring?” I quipped.
“Fuck no. Best job ever.”
“Then you understand my feelings on this matter.” I stood up. “So if you’d excuse me.”
“Stop,” Miller said, his tone a little panicked.
He had a reputation for being a really good guy. Intense and a little strange—catchers always were—but solid.
“We really want you on this project.”
I looked from him to Langfield, still confused as fuck. The two were complete opposites. Yet they were friends? And why were they so invested in a brownstone on Montgomery? I’d bet a grand each owned a penthouse in a high-rise downtown.
The more I thought about it, the more curious I was. Not that I wanted them to know that. But I was intrigued enough to sit down again and sip my coffee while I tried to work out their angle.
I prided myself on being a tough negotiator, and I always kept my cool. It was a necessity in this business. I’d had union leaders throw duffel bags of cash at me and mob underbosses threaten my life. It went with the territory.
None of it ruffled me. And I made a point to listen more than I spoke. Because, if given enough time, people always made it clear what they really wanted. So I’d let these two yammer on about a brownstone for now.
“It’s time sensitive,” Langfield said.
“And we need walls.” Miller fidgeted with his pencil, tapping it on the bar top. He seemed almost… desperate? Why would a guy like him summon me to a golf course at nine on a Tuesday morning and beg me to give him walls?
“Listen,” I said, my patience wearing thin. “I can give you some names. Friends, people I’d trust to work on my mother’s house.”
“No,” Langfield said firmly. “We need you.”
“Do you mind telling me why? Because it’s not even nine, and you’re on your second whiskey, doing your best to convince me to help you fix up an old house. I may not be a billionaire, but I’ve got things to do.”
His eyes turned to slits, and for the briefest of moments, I feared for my life. But then he let out a deep exhale and slumped over the bar. “We’ve got a dragon.”
What the fuck? This man was drunk. Or maybe on drugs. Whatever kind of shit rich people did.
“And we need a dragon slayer.” He hung his head, the move causing his suit jacket to pull against his back and shoulders.
“Dude.” Miller elbowed him hard in the ribs. “We need a dragon tamer.”
Langfield shook his head, but he didn’t look up. “A dragon slayer. You can’t tame a dragon.”
“Semantics, Bossman. We don’t want to kill her.”
Her?
“I said what I said,” Langfield grumbled into his glass.
I sat in silence, watching them bicker. It took a minute before Miller caught sight of me again and sat up straight. Like maybe he’d forgotten I was still here.
He set his pencil down and used both hands to smooth his hair. “The client—our landlord—she’s a bit difficult.”
Landlord?
“Ducking Medusa.”
“And given your reputation as one of Boston’s toughest negotiators,” Miller went on, widening his eyes at Langfield, “and your long track record of successful projects under some pretty extreme circumstances, we know you’re the man for the job.”
It was officially time to exit this meeting. These guys were making no sense. “While I appreciate you thinking of me for this innovative and exciting project, I’m afraid I’ve got to go. My company is a finalist for the new wing of the children’s hospital. I’ve got work to do with my team.”
Going for who seemed to be the more reasonable of the two, I held out my hand to Miller.
Instead of taking it, he looked me up and down. “You were a finalist,” he uttered under his breath, turning back to his crossword puzzle.
Were? My gut twisted. “Excuse me?”
“My mother is on the board of the children’s hospital,” he said. He was back to tapping his pencil on the bar top. “And the fine arts museum.”
Fuck. We were already planning the expansion slated for next year for the museum.
The twist in my gut morphed into a ball of fury. “What are you implying?”
“I’m implying that working on this project would help build a potentially lucrative relationship with the Miller Foundation.”
Pulling my shoulders back, I stood to my full height. I wasn’t Miller-tall—that guy was a tree—but I could hold my own, and I did not appreciate the threats.
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Miller, apparently the honest one of the pair, shot Langfield a glare. “Might as well own up to it, Bossman.”
Langfield turned to me with a resigned expression. “What Man Bun said.”
Jaw clenched tight and hands fisted at my sides, I studied one man, then the other. They were thoroughly pissing me off. It wasn’t often someone got the jump on me, and these guys?
“What is the deal with this house?”
“We live there.”
“Both of you?”
“Yes. And eighty-five kids. We need ducking walls.”
None of this made an ounce of sense, and yet, I couldn’t help but pity them. Because what the hell kind of circumstances had put them in an old house together? Now my curiosity was getting the better of me.
“We’ve got plans,” Miller said. “The architect drew up full specs. We’ve chosen materials. I’ll email them today.”
“I’ll have to get my team to take a look before I make any decisions.”
“And money is no object,” he said, his words coming out fast. “We just need walls by March.”
I took out my phone and made a show of scrolling through my calendar. I was triple-booked most days and nights, but there were plenty of people on my team who could handle this. Could this be some kind of weird test? Maybe if I could figure it out and pass, the children’s hospital and the Revs’ training facility would be next.
Though it would be unprecedented. I’d never had to jump through hoops like this to land big projects. Why would I be expected to now?
“I’m really tied up. The projects on my calendar have been in the works for a year or more. Maybe after the holidays?”
“We don’t have that much time.”
“Listen,” I said, trying to placate them. “How about this? January second. I’ll be there to take a look. See how my team can help you out.”
“December twenty-sixth,” Langfield growled. “New Year’s is bullshit.”
“Fine.”
“And DiLuca?”
“Yes.”
“Prepare yourself. She’s one hell of a dragon.”
1
DELIA
DECEMBER 26TH
There comes a time in every woman’s life when she must let her guard down, have a few drinks, and make some questionable decisions.
Apparently, today was my day.
Because I was Cordelia Fucking Masters. When I did something, I did it right. And that included making enemies and hiring contractors.
“Girls, get in the house. It’s freezing.” Loaded down with bags of food my mother insisted we take home, I ushered my eight-year-old twins inside and hit the lock button on my key. Under normal circumstances, I resisted my mother’s attempts to feed us, but with the knowledge that chia seed pudding and kale casserole were on the menu tonight, I chose the lesser of two evils.
The girls trudged inside and toed off their boots, debating the merits of space travel as they did. The makeshift mudroom area we’d created in the back of the house next to the kitchen was a disaster.
This space was originally the servants’ entrance, and the original stone steps needed to be replaced. Eventually, the room would be lined with beautiful built-ins, complete with a cubby and drawers for each kid. Backpacks would hang neatly in a row on a bead board.
Today, though, the girls hung their coats on haphazardly placed Command hooks and dropped their wet boots onto mismatched shoe racks. To be fair, it didn’t look half bad when our home’s occupants were considered. There were fourteen of us in total. Seven of whom were children ranging in age from two to sixteen. We had boots, snow pants and a massive bucket full of winter hats. We’d given up on keeping each family’s items separate. At this point, all I cared was that my kids’ heads were covered.
Kai would sometimes get annoyed when Phoebe took his favorite Boston Bolts hat, but our kids had mostly adjusted to communal living. Every day was chaos, but in the last eleven months, we had found our groove.
I rolled my neck and toed off my own boots. In another week, I’d be back in my regular heels, but right now, I wanted my cozy slippers and a nice glass of wine.
Tomorrow, the holiday hangover would kick in. None of the kids had gotten much sleep over the last few days, so they were all bordering on cranky. Factor in too much stimulation and sugar, and it was a recipe for disaster.
Not to mention I had a trial starting after the new year and boxes of discovery to review before I could even think about bed tonight.
When I stepped into the kitchen, I was met with the chatter of the kids from somewhere close by. Probably the living room, where they were likely playing with all the gifts they’d received the day before. Waking up on Christmas morning with my three best friends and all our kids had been pure magic.
