Page 37 of Resisting the Bossy Billionaire

Their eyes met.

What he saw in her stare made his heart freeze.

She hugged the duvet around herself and whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to look. I wasn’t snooping, I swear.’

It took him a long moment to be able to breathe again, and even then it was through a throat that had tightened into rock.

For the first time in a decade, the past and the present collided.

His core knocked off balance and on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, Marcello walked to the mess on the floor made by the drawer he’d knocked out, and picked up the photo. It was the original of the photo he carried in his wallet so it could always be kept close to him.

It was his most treasured possession.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to put the drawer back in place, tuck the photo back into its place inside it, and dredge up a meaningless conversation to skip over the whole thing.

If he was with anyone but Victoria he would do just that, but the starkness in her stare...the compassion and the fear...

His heart heavier than it had been for many years, he sank on the bed and reached for her hand. She shuffled closer to himand, with a quiet sigh, rested her cheek on his shoulder. He could sense her stare boring into the photo and was grateful that she didn’t ask any questions. Grateful for the space she gave for him to compose his thoughts.

He cleared his throat and placed a kiss into her hair. ‘You have not done anything wrong so there is no need to apologise.’

Finally she spoke. Whispered. ‘You’re a father?’

He expelled a long breath and closed his eyes. ‘Yes.’

He could hear her breathing. Could hear the questions whirling in her head.

Releasing her hand, he lightly touched his son’s face. ‘This is my son, Tommaso. He was born eleven years, three months and two days ago. He died when he was three days old.’

Although her heart had already known the child had passed away, Victoria still covered her mouth to stop her horror escaping.

‘He had what is known as newborn meningitis. They believe it was caused by a bacteria he caught from Livia during the birth. Completely harmless to the mother but to the newborn child...’ His shoulder rose against her cheek. ‘The first symptoms developed ten or so hours after this picture was taken. He did not want to wake to feed. From there...’ His shoulder rose again, his accent becoming more pronounced. ‘He went downhill very quickly. They did everything they could for him but he was too little. Too vulnerable. His immune system was not strong enough.’

Hot tears swimming, Victoria swallowed them back as hard and as silently as she could, utterly devastated for Marcello’s loss and wretched that her curiosity over a photograph fallen on the floor had compelled him to relate what must be the most soul-wrenching period of his life.

And she’d had no idea. She didn’t think anyone in America had.

He’d carried this loss for all these years...

The tears finally choked her and spilled out in a flood.

Marcello felt the heave of Victoria’s sobs and, fighting back the burn in his eyes, wrapped his arms around her. Holding her tight, he kissed the top of her head and breathed in the scent of her shampoo.

‘I’m sorry,’ she wept into his chest, her fingers digging and clinging into his side. ‘So sorry. He was so beautiful and perfect and... God, Marcello, I’m so sorry.’

‘It is okay,’ he whispered. It had been many years since he’d told anyone about his son. Anyone who mattered had been there at the time and had grieved with them.

Victoria mattered. Mattered far more than she should. Than he should allow.

That she should feel it so deeply...

He closed his eyes again to his own tears and breathed in more of her soothing scent.

She disentangled herself from his hold and stared at him with tears still falling over her blotchy face. ‘You shouldn’t be having to comfortme.’

He brushed a tear away with his thumb. ‘The death of any child is never easy to hear about.’ He wiped another tear with a sad smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead before reaching over for the box of tissues on the bedside table. He thrust them under her nose. With a grateful smile, she grabbed a handful and blew her nose while Marcello climbed off the bed and headed to the bureau he kept a bottle of his preferred eighteen-year-old single malt in. Taking the bottle and two crystal glasses, he re-joined her on the bed and poured them both a glass.

Visibly calmer, she took a small sip of hers then fixed her red-rimmed eyes back on him. ‘I’m sorry you felt boxed in and compelled to tell me.’

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