Page 57 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
I motion for the guards, my jaw tight as they escort her toward the door. Just before she leaves, she glances over her shoulder, her grin sharp and infuriating. “Good luck, Don Salvatore. You’re going to need it.”
The doors slam shut behind her, and I’m left standing, the echoes of her words swirling in the air. I hate her. I hate her insolence, her defiance, her maddening ability to speak the truth I don’t want to hear. But she’s right. And it only makes me angrier. I drop down on the sofa, unable to keep myself from groaning.
Valentina may be scared of me, but she’s also mine. And no matter where she’s gone, no matter who’s helping her, I will bring her back. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Memories flood my mind—her laughter, the fire in her eyes when she argued with me, the way she softened in my arms when she finally let her guard down.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and let the weight of my anger and regret settle over me. She can run as far as she wants, but she’ll never escape me.
Not now. Notever.
23
VALENTINA
Five Years Later
The sound of my son’s laughter pulls me from sleep like a ribbon unwinding in slow, lazy circles. I blink against the sunlight spilling through the curtains, golden and warm, and let the familiar hum of life fill my ears. Outside, the faint clatter of a neighbor’s morning espresso cups drifts through the open window, mingling with the chirp of birds flitting between lemon trees. Sicily feels alive, a heartbeat pulsing under its sun-soaked hills, and for the first time in a long while, so do I.
I push back the soft linen sheets and slip my feet onto the cool terracotta tiles, stretching until my muscles hum. The house is modest but mine, a sanctuary built brick by brick from the ashes of my old life. Each creak of the wooden floorboards tells a story, one that doesn’t end with fear.
“Vieni qui, Mamma!” my son calls from the living room, his voice bright and sweet like the orange blossoms outside.
I smile despite myself, letting his excitement guide me down the hallway. The walls are painted a warm ochre, sunlight dancing across them as I pass framed sketches of market stalls,quiet seasides, and the little vineyard just outside town. It’s a house I’ve made. My boy is sprawled on the floor in the living room, his curly hair a wild halo around his cherubic face. A small wooden car zooms across the tiles in his chubby hand.
“Mamma,guarda!” he exclaims, holding up the toy like a prize.
I crouch beside him, ruffling his hair. “Sei così bravo, amore mio,” I murmur, my chest tightening as he beams with pride.
Luca’s eyes stare back at me from his tiny face, that same molten brown that shifts with his moods. It’s a bittersweet ache, seeing him so vividly in our son. There are days I can’t look for too long without my throat closing, but today isn’t one of them.
“Can I play outside, Mamma?” he asks, already scrambling to his feet. His little legs barely keep up with his enthusiasm as he races to the door.
“After breakfast,” I say, catching him by the waist with practiced ease. “We need to eat first. You’re getting as skinny as a bird!”
He giggles and wiggles free, darting to the kitchen. I follow at a slower pace, letting the rhythm of our morning settle me. Sicily has taught me the art of patience—the slow drip of coffee, the steady warmth of fresh bread cooling on the counter, the gentle breeze that carries the scent of rosemary and citrus into every corner of this house.
I brew my espresso, stirring in a touch of sugar, while my son demolishes his small plate of figs and ricotta. He’s already chattering about his plans for the day: helping our neighbor pick grapes, chasing the stray cat that suns itself near the piazza, and climbing trees until his hands are sticky with sap. The sugariness of his words soothes me as I sip my coffee and glance out the window. The rolling hills stretch endlessly, dotted with olive groves and clusters of whitewashed villas. The sea glimmers in the distance, like a sparkling promise of freedom.It’s breathtaking, but there’s always a hollow part of me that the view can’t quite fill.
“Can we go to the market today, Mamma?”
I smile at him, brushing away the pang of longing that always lingers just below the surface. “Yes,tesoro. But you have to behave this time, okay?”
He grins, all dimples and mischief, and I know I’ve already lost the battle.
We go to the market, which buzzes with life, as it does every Saturday. Stalls brim with ripe tomatoes, vibrant peppers, and braided garlic. The air is rich with the aroma of grilled seafood and the sweet tang of fresh citrus. My son tugs at my hand, pulling me toward a stand selling tiny carved animals.
“Look, Mamma!” he says, pointing to a wooden horse.
The vendor smiles at him, pressing the toy into his hands. “Un regalo,” he says warmly. A gift.
I thank him with a nod, slipping a few coins into his basket anyway. My son clutches the horse like it’s the most precious thing in the world, and I can’t help but smile.
It’s moments like these that keep me grounded, keep me here. But they don’t erase the shadow that follows me, the one that whispers of a life I’ve left behind.
As we walk home, the whispers grow louder. Memories of Luca flash through my mind unbidden: his rare, genuine smile, the heat of his gaze, the way his voice could command a room—and my heart. I’ve told myself a thousand times that leaving was the right thing to do, that this quiet life in Sicily is what’s best for my son.
But what about me?
