Page 18 of Second Chance Daddy
No. Not good. Nothing about that was good.
“I had business.”
“There’s always business, Dante. Doesn’t mean you have to be a dick about it.”
If only you knew what kind of business, little sister.
Blood on snow. Moscow. The woman’s scream cutting through the Russian winter. Dad’s voice over the phone:Loose end.
The way her body went still when I put the gun to her head.
The way she begged.
The way I pulled the trigger, anyway.
I couldn’t bring that home. Not to Cassie. Not to this.
“I’ll be there,” I repeat, stubbing out the cigarette against the dashboard.
“And Dante?” Tina’s voice softens. “Whatever shit you got involved in back then... It’s time you made it right.”
The line goes dead before I can respond.
Make it right. As if there’s a right way to explain why I abandoned the woman I love and the daughter I didn’t know existed.
I sit there, engine idling, watching Cassie wipe down counters whilemy daughter—maybe my daughter—God, please let her be my daughter—traces patterns in spilled flour with one tiny finger.
Three years of telling myself she was better off without me.
Three years of waking up hard from dreams of her skin against mine.
Three years of wondering, what if?
Three years of being wrong about everything.
A tap on my passenger window makes me jump. Hand goes straight to the gun tucked against my ribs before I register the face.
Old Pete from the hardware store, grinning through tobacco-stained teeth like he just won the lottery.
I roll down the window. “Pete.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Dante Romano.” His eyes narrow, studying me like a bug under glass. “Heard you were back in town. Stirring up trouble already?”
Not yet.“Just visiting family.”
“Uh-huh.” Pete spits into the gutter, the brown stream hitting the pavement with a wet splat. “Your daddy knows you’re here?”
My father knows everything.“He’s in Russia.”
“Good place for him.” Pete’s grin turns ugly, revealing gaps where teeth used to be. “Some folks ‘round here got long memories, boy. Just saying.”
Is that a threat?
My hand finds the knife in my jacket pocket. Five inches of steel, honed to a razor edge. Old habits from a new world.
“Appreciate the warning, Pete.”
He steps back, something in my voice making him cautious. Smart man. Stupid men don’t live to be seventy in towns like this.
