Page 77 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

He shakes his head, balling his hand into a loose fist. I can’t help but look. I’d never seen the damage before. Unlike his arm, his hand was always hidden by one of his gloves even when we’ve slept together. I can see why. The skin is misshapen and scarred. Not just the white ripples of old flame like the rest of his arm, but real bubbling damage and missing muscle that stops him from closing his hand into a full fist.

He runs it under the water, shaking.

“Nothing,” he finally grunts, putting his shoulder between me and the sight.

I ease in behind him, pull him back from the sink.

“Nadia, don’t look at it—” he growls.

But I ignore his whining. I take his hand in mine. I bring it to my lips, kiss each of his smooth fingertips, the cradle of his bubbled palm as gently as I can.

He exhales. The tension in his fingers lessens and relaxes. Our eyes meet, silent.

“Better?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me as if he’s had some sort of epiphany. The red shade in his neck fades to his natural tan, and the tension in his gnarled fingers finally lets them relax as much as they’re able.

I think it helped, even if he won’t say so. “Kissing it better always works with Harper.”

I grin when he obviously takes offense to that, those soft eyes turning into a dry scowl as I laugh. I kiss the back of his palm a final time, an apology. He lets me, so he can’t be too upset.

“Aren’t you supposed to be angry at me?” he mutters.

“Why?”

His eyes wander to the wedding band on my finger, but Harper comes charging in—probably wondering where everybody went—and makes a big gasp. Ren immediately slides his hand behind his back, but too late.

“What’s that?” she demands, skipping up to him.

I brace for impact. I can tease Ren, sure. But kids can be merciless, and I have no idea what she’ll say.

“Nothing,” he mutters. He reaches for his glove.

“I want to see!” Harper stands on her tiptoes and whines.

“Harper, leave Ren alone. Let him have some privacy.”

But for some reason, Ren just heaves a sigh and turns to show her, holding up the damaged hand. Her big eyes take it in, her expression animated as she tries to figure out what to think about it.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I hurt it in a fire a long time ago.”

“And it didn’t get better?” she asks.

“Not all the way.”

Suddenly, Harper hops up and down, feet pounding on the tile.

“Oh! Oh, look!” she says, hooking her fingers into the collar of her shirt and pulling it down. “I have a scar, too, and it doesn’t get better either!”

She shows off the old, narrow line from her heart surgery, right in the middle of her chest. It has gotten better, she just doesn’t remember.

“We match, Daddy!”

The look that washes over Ren’s face—it reminds me of the way the sun looks when it first peeks over the horizon. Ren pulls Harper into his arms. He doesn’t let go for a long, long time.

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