Page 16 of Second Chance Daddy
My heart stumbles over itself.
She’s laughing at something, flour dusting her cheek like snow. Looks... lighter. Free. Different from the broken bird who trembled beneath me three years ago. Different from the woman who begged me not to leave marks where her husband would see them.
Gino. That piece of shit.
My jaw clenches at the memory of the careful way she moved, like someone used to making herself small. The desperation in her kiss—like she was drowning, and I was air.
Should’ve killed him then.
Should’ve made it look like an accident.
Something tugs at her apron. She looks down, still smiling.
A little girl.
Time stops.
Small. Maybe three. Wild blonde curls that catch the light just like her mother’s.
The world tilts sideways. My vision tunnels until all I can see is that tiny figure reaching up, demanding attention with the confidence of a child who knows she’s loved.
Cassie lifts the child onto a stool by the counter. The movement is practiced, automatic. Like they’ve done this dance a thousand times.
A daughter. Cassie has a daughter.
The girl turns—just for a second—and the air punches out of my lungs.
That nose. That stubborn chin. The way she tilts her head when she’s curious.
Those eyes.
Stormy blue. Gray around the edges like storm clouds. I’ve seen that exact combination every morning.
In the mirror.
In my father’s face, the sharp Romano features softened by my mother’s Slavic cheekbones.
In every Romano who ever lived, mixed with Zhukov ice-blue that runs in Bratva bloodlines.
My knuckles go white against the steering wheel. The leather squeaks under the pressure.
The math. Do the fucking math.
Three years ago. That night in the parking lot. The timing...
No. Can’t be.
But even as I tell myself that, my chest fills with something between terror and desperate hope. The kind of hope that gets men killed. The kind that makes them stupid.
She belongs to someone else. That bastard she was married to. Had to be him.
Or maybe not?
The thought hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. My hands shake—actually shake—as I reach for my cigarettes. I haven’t smoked in two years, but I keep a pack in the glove compartment. Old habits.
Russian habits.
The flame from my lighter wavers. Three tries before I get the cigarette lit.
