Page 79 of Mafia King's Surprise Baby

My son.

I can’t upend his world, I know this, but I can make it better. We don’t need time for this. Patience, yes, and lots of careful handling. But we have love overflowing for this little boy, and that’s the most important, our compass pointing to him, our north.

Bianca stops a few paces from me. Enzo lifts his head from where he’d pressed it onto her shoulder. His dark gaze peruses me with a little frown on his narrow forehead. He asks his mother something in French, and I gather it’s a question based on the inflection at the end. A question about me, since the wordpapawas in there.

I’m holding my breath, waiting for Bianca’s response, unable to tear my gaze from my child.

Bianca laughs. “No, his name is Leo. But you can call himpapaif you want.”

Thankfully, this was in English.

“Leo like a lion?” Enzo asks then peers at me. “You a lion?”

I chuckle, even as my heart threatens to burst. This is the first time my son is speaking to me.

“Maybe I am,” I hear myself answering.

I cut a look at Bianca—she nods. Good, I didn’t fuck this up. It had seemed harsh to say no and risk killing his spirit or imagination this way. I remember my dad saying there’s nostronger thing than a child’s imagination.

I notice the stuffed toy clutched to his side. He had it with him when he slept, too. It must be like a sort of security blanket. I nod at it. “Who’s this?”

Enzo glances at the toy then back at me. “That’s Godzilla.”

My eyes go wide. Whoa! That’s a monster…but then again, the kid grew up in Japan, where the creature is a national icon.

“I’m scared of Godzilla,” I tell him. “You’re not, I suppose?”

He shakes his head.

Silence settles between us. Bianca reads the cues and smiles at me. Right, we need to take this slow and easy. We can’t rush him.

“Want pancakes, baby?” she asks him.

He squeals with joy. Mattia and I both wince, though we school our features quickly so the kid won’t see. We don’t want to kill his joy. I’d forgotten how high-pitched children could get.

“With bubbies!” he exclaims.

Bianca laughs. “With blueberries, yes.”

She goes to the pantry, taking out pancake mix, then a bowl, then eggs, milk, and a carton of blueberries from the fridge. She’s doing all this one-armed, holding the boy on one hip. I want to ask if I can hold him, but I don’t want to jump the gun. Just as much as consent is a big thing with adults, it should also be respected with children. How else will they develop solid, healthy boundaries otherwise?

“Can I help?” I instead ask.

Mattia chimes in, too. She turns to us and nods at a high-backed stool at the island.

“Watch him so he doesn’t fall,” she says as she places him between us. “I’ve ordered a high chair last night and it should be delivered later today.”

She starts on the pancake batter, and Mattia and I both gasp and age a decade in a second as Enzo suddenly leaps forward in the stool to reach for the blueberry tub on the island. We’ve got our hands braced on either side of him to make sure he doesn’t fall.

“One by one,” Bianca scolds Enzo.

We exchange a look, and I take on the duty of making sure he eats one berry at a time, swallowing before letting him take another. I wonder why, then it dawns he could choke on too many. Damn it, but looking after little kids is no small feat. Every little thing can be a choking hazard.

It’s a companionable silence as we keep an eye on Enzo and Bianca cooks at the stove. Hana’s not up yet, so it’s just us four.

A stack of pancakes makes it onto the table. Mattia gets plates. I wrap an arm around Enzo’s stool to protect him from the other side.

When a jar of creamy peanut butter makes it onto the table, I turn startled eyes onto Bianca. How did she know I like this on my blueberry pancakes? Everyone thinks it’s weird if not outright disgusting.

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