Page 58 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

But when Harper speaks, Ren always listens.

He has turned statue-still, his conversation with Salvatore Mori halting abruptly.

Salvatore hasn’t noticed. Not the way I have. He’s still speaking, but I can’t hear it over the rush of my own thoughts, and I don’t think Ren can either, because for a moment, the whole table goes awkwardly silent as Salvatore Mori goes ignored.

Half of the table is burning to the ground, and no one can see it.

“Excuse me,” Ren says softly. “I need to—”

He’s about to stand, but a train of waiters bearing trays over their heads interrupts him. Our food is smoothly distributed,plate after plate, in front of us. Ren sinks back down into his seat as if crushed back into it, his eyes staring at the table as if he’s incapable of seeing anything on it.

A whole fish is placed in front of me. It shares the same dead-eyed stare as Ren, unable to focus.

Suddenly, in my right ear, I hear a gasp. Harper lets out an awful yell, looking at my plate with sheer horror and devastation. “Mommy, it needs water!” she panics. My head is swimming, trying to pull away from my own silent panic and into hers.

I glance at my plate, where my very cooked fish rests on a bed of vegetables, its murky eye staring up into nothingness. He’s a little bit past needing water.

“No, Harper, it’s just—”

Harper gets her hands around my glass of water before my mom reflexes can fully kick in. I reach for the glass, trying to stop the inevitable as if it’s happening in slow motion. Too late. Water dumps into my plate, and subsequently into my lap, drowning the fish and me both.

“Harper!” I gasp, pushing out from the table to drip all over the floor.

She’s staring at the fish on the verge of tears. Chairs scoot back as everyone scrambles to help.

Salvatore Mori whisks the dripping plate of fish away. He makes a fast track for the kitchen to get the offending dish off the table, shouldering through the staff that try to intercept and take it from him.

Ren helps me dry off, patting me down, our eyes catching. The silent rage I see in his eyes makes me want to vomit.

Harper has started crying, which has started Tessa’s baby crying, and the whole dinner is unraveling into a total shitshow all because I didn’t think about fish being served with the head on. The kids crying muffles what might be Salvatore yelling in the kitchen. Something shatters distantly.

I blot my dress with a thick silky napkin that doesn’t want to absorb anything, keeping my head down, thoughts rushing a mile a minute. When Ren speaks, I flinch by sheer instinct.

“No, it’s okay,” Ren says. Gently. Soothing. Not to me. I glance up and find him reassuring Harper, taking both her hands into his. “I think you got him just in time. And what a brave thing you did, trying to help him.”

“Fish can’t be outside of water,” Harper hiccups to him. “He’lldrown.”

I stand frozen, watching, as he scoops Harper into his arms and holds her close, hushing her.

Tessa swoops in to help me, applying more napkins like field triage. Water drips. Ren glances at me, our eyes meeting over the crown of Harper’s hair. I look down at my dress. Can’t hold his stare.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. To Tessa. To Ren. As if to the universe itself.

“No, you’re fine,” Tessa laughs, sweetly oblivious to the tension between Ren and me. “Look at it this way—at least fish don’t swim in red wine.”

Once there’s little more anyone can do for me, Tessa tries to calm down her own baby and I turn toward Harper. Ren backs off. It’s easier to face her than it is to look at him. I run my hands over Harper’s big, pink cheeks, wiping away her tears.

“I didn’t mean to get your dress wet,” she sniffs. “But I had to! He wasn’t breathing—” she gasps, barely breathing herself.

“It’s okay, Harper. I’m not mad at you, but...” How do I even lecture her on trying to save something? She has a heart of gold, and I don’t have it in me to punish her for it. My frustration burns out like an ember. I’m upset, but it has nothing to do with her. “Next time, you ask someone to help you. You don’t just do it yourself.”

She sniffles and nods.

Salvatore comes back empty-handed and stony-faced.

“How was he?” Tessa prompts him. Salvatore reads her meaning without any trouble.

“They’re taking care of him. He’s fine,” Sal answers, smoothing his tie down as he sits. “Better than the cook, anyway…”

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