Page 48 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

“He’s nice.”

…Is he?

“And he’s sad,” she adds. “So maybe this can cheer him up.”

“I don’t think he’s sad, baby,” I tell her. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

She prattles on, sure of herself. “He is sad, because—because when we’re mad it’s because we really need to cry instead ofshout,” she says, parroting my own words back at me like they’re gospel, “and sometimes he gets mad and yells. So, he is sad.”

Sure, maybe that would hold up if Ren were a six-year-old.

I decide not to ruin her impression of him. Let her think what she wants about him. The more they like each other, the better it is for her. My thoughts wander as I string together a charm bracelet. It’s never going to look good, but it keeps my fingers busy as she tells me the colors she wants.

When she finishes, she holds it up for my inspection.

“Harper!” I whisper.

I snatch it out of her hands so fast, I nearly break it, my heart hammering in my throat. She’s lined the letters up side by side:

D-A-D-D-Y

***

Harper chases Ren through the halls when he comes home, right on his heels every step of the way, holding up his bracelet for him. I redesigned it to say REN instead, though when she asked why it couldn’t say DADDY, I didn’t have a good answer. I tried to flip it around on her and ask why itshouldsay daddy, but logic only works on adults.

“Mommy and I made this for you,” she cries, following him around. He takes the bracelet and inspects it.

“See?” Harper says, holding up her own wrist. “We match! I made one for Applesauce, too!”

Ren dutifully puts it on.

As he slides it over his hand, I notice the knuckles of his uncovered hand are bruised and bloody. A fresh wound. I glance at the rest of him, a quick check. Not a hair out of place. No bruises or black eyes.

Wherever Ren has been, it wasn’t a fair fight.

“What do you think?” he asks her, showing it off. She doesn’t even notice the injury.

I stand back with my arms crossed, hoping he forgets about that bracelet and wears it around to all of his mob meetings and drug deals and executions and whatever the fuck else he does day to day.

“Mommy wouldn’t let me give you the first one we made,” Harper announces.

Oh God, I’ve raised a snitch.

“Why not?” Ren asks.

“Because it wouldn’t have fit,” I interrupt, stepping up behind Harper and brushing her off. “Harper, go pick up the mess in the living room, please. You were supposed to have it done before lunch.”

I know full well she’s going to go in there and make a worse mess, but that’s alright. I can trade in a big disaster for a small one. Instead of doing as I asked, Harper comes running back at Mach speed, her giraffe clutched in her arms to show off his new necklace.

“Exquisite,” Ren says, and I swear the dimple of his cheek quirks when he sees the spelling. Like he almost actually smiled for once. He inspects the ratty old thing, turning it over in his hands as if really looking at it for the first time. “How old is this?”

“He’s…six!” she decides on the spot. “He came from the zoo with other real giraffes!”

“Is that right? They were just giving them away that day, were they?”

“It’s true!” she insists. “He came from a big zoo where all the other giraffes were too big, so he couldn’t stay with them.”

“Her kindergarten class went to the zoo. She couldn’t go, but a boy in her class brought that back for her. She’s been in love with it ever since,” I explain. “And we called him Applesauce because the first thing she tried to do was stick his face in her lunch to feed him,” I remind her, with a playful glare. She beams up at me. Honestly, the plushie is a bit disgusting these days, but there’s only so much I can do to keep the thing clean when it’s being dragged around by a six-year-old all day.

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