Page 11 of The Mafia King's Baby

The pain in his voice makes me want to reach across the space between us, to offer comfort the way he might have offered it to me. Instead, I curl my legs under me and study his profile in the candlelight. “Guilt is a terrible companion,” I say softly. “I spent months after Dad died thinking about all the things I should have said, and all the visits I should have made. It doesn’t bring them back, but it’s hard to let go of the feeling that somehow we failed them.”

He looks at me then, and something passes between us. Recognition, maybe. The understanding that comes from sharing similar wounds.

“Your father sounds like he raised you well.”

I nod. “He tried. He and my mom both worked hard to make sure I could take care of myself.” I smile, thinking of Dad’s endless safety lectures and Mom’s practical advice about everything from budgeting to cooking pork to one-hundred-sixty degrees and never mind the newer chefs’ guides. “Sometimes, I think they prepared me too well for independence. I’m not very good at needing people.”

“That doesn’t sound like a weakness.”

“Maybe not, but it can be lonely.” The admission surprises me. I don’t usually share personal revelations with near-strangers, especially after half a glass of wine. “I think that’s part of why my last relationship ended. I was too self-sufficient, too focused on planning and controlling outcomes instead of just letting things happen naturally, but he was also never going to commit, so...”

“What happened?”

“Three years together, and when I finally asked where we were heading, he acted like I was being unreasonable for wanting clarity about our future.” I realize I’m probably sharing too much, but the wine and candlelight and his attentive silence make it easy to keep talking. “He wanted to enjoy the present without thinking about tomorrow. I wanted to build something that would last.”

“Incompatible approaches to time.”

“Exactly.” I’m impressed by how succinctly he’s captured the heart of my failed relationship. “He thought I was too intense and too controlling. Maybe he was right.”

“Or maybe he was scared of commitment and blamed you for wanting what most people want in a serious relationship.”

The gentle defense catches me by surprise. Tripp never acknowledged that my desire for clarity might be reasonable rather than demanding. “That’s... Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping wine and listening to the storm. The conversation has shifted something between us, created a different kind of intimacy than the polite guest-host dynamic we maintained during the day. “Can I ask you something?” I set down my wine glass and turn to face him more directly.

“Of course.”

“Earlier today, when we were hiking, you talked about traveling like someone who really sees places rather than just passing through them. What made you that way?”

He considers the question, swirling wine in his glass. “When you spend a lot of time in unfamiliar places, you learn that every city has its own logic, its own rhythm. If you don’t take time to understand the pattern, you miss everything that makes it unique.”

“That’s a very philosophical approach for business travel.”

“Business can be...unpredictable. Understanding your environment becomes a survival skill.”

Something in his tone suggests he’s choosing his words carefully, but the wine has dulled my usual analytical instincts. Instead of pressing for details, I admire the way firelight plays across his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the intelligence in his dark eyes. “You’re very different from what I expected when I started hosting.”

“How so?”

“I thought I’d get middle-aged business travelers with tired complaints about airline delays, or maybe young couples trying to save money on vacation accommodations.” I gesture at him with my wine glass. “I definitely didn’t expect someone who discusses the philosophy of travel and makes me question assumptions I didn’t know I was making.”

“What assumptions?”

“That strangers are just strangers. That you can share space with someone without really connecting.” I take another sip of wine, feeling bold. “That someone could walk into your life for one night and make you remember what it feels like to have a real conversation with another human being.”

The words hang between us, more honest than I intended. The wine has definitely affected my judgment, but I don’t regret the admission. There’s something about Aleks that feels safe, even if he remains largely mysterious beneath his handsome facade.

“Celia.” He sets down his wine glass and leans forward, closing some of the distance between us on the couch.

“Yes?”

“I should tell you that I?—”

Thunder crashes overhead, so loud it shakes the windows, and we both startle. The moment breaks, but the intensity lingers in the air between us like electricity before a lightning strike. “I should probably check the flashlights,” I say, though I make no move to get up. “Make sure the batteries are still good.”

“Probably.” He doesn’t move either.

We look at each other across the small space of the coffee table, and something shifts, some invisible barrier dissolving in the candlelight and wine and shared confidences. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read, intense and careful at the same time. “Aleks?”

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