Page 32 of Second Chance Daddy
The secondI reach my room, I make the calls to my old contacts. Guys who owe me favors, or fear me enough to follow instructions.
My old contacts—Chicago, New York, Moscow. Names that shake the underworld. And for me? They answer fast with trembling voices.
“It’s been a while, Dante.” Viktor’s voice trembles slightly, as it should. He had a ball buster of a time when I was away, on my dime, too. “What can I do for you?”
“I need information, Viktor. On the ex from Chicago for a Cassie Russo with a kid named Aria. First name Gino. Last name Esposito. He’s with the Italians.”
I hear typing in the background. Viktor’s good—former FSB with fingers in every database from Chicago PD to the goddamn CIA.
“Nasty piece of work,” Viktor says after a moment.
Fucking Esposito blood. The Italians always think they run shit—flashy suits, loud mouths. But they bleed like anyone else. And their reach? It never scared the Russians. Never scared me.
I make a few more calls to see what good-for-nothing shit he’s up to now.
“Esposito? That fucker. Dangerous, sure. But stupid. Second-generation money, no discipline. Italian arrogance. They think they’re untouchable, but they’ve been pissing off the wrong people for years,” one tells me.
The contact keeps talking. “Word is, Esposito’s family’s been slipping. Gino made enemies. Got sloppy with his businesses. Heard he laid hands on his woman. Rumors say he enjoys hurting women. Shot up trouble at a brothel he’s taken to visiting the past three years.” His tone darkens. “Didn’t end well for some of the girls he requested.”
My fists clench. Cold rage pulses through me.
What the hell did this asshole put Cassie through?
No one ever told her about us—the Romanos. She has no idea what I am, what my last name means outside Cedar Falls. As far as I know, she thinks I’m some rich boy with a bad temper. I hope she never finds out about the body count stacked behind the Romano name. Or mine.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s fucking clueless about her ex, too. I remember her mentioning that she had bad taste in men and that he was a bad guy, but was she talking about how he treated her or who he was? The Espositos are bottom-feeders compared to the Bratva, but they’re still dangerous.
I hang up, my mind racing. Did she marry that prick knowing what she was getting into? Or did she get trapped the way so many women do—thinking she could fix him, soften the edges, survive it?
It doesn’t matter. She’s out now. But her trouble is not over. Things might’ve calmed down, but Espositos are known for notletting things go. They let it simmer. Fester. And then, they come back when their victims least expect it.
I wantedto run to her last night. Every damn cell in my body was ready to knock on that door, cross her porch, walk through her walls—straight into that bedroom I haven’t stopped thinking about for three goddamn years.
But showing up like that? With the way I’m wired for her? Would’ve ended messy—her up against the wall, my hands everywhere they shouldn’t be.
No, smarter to let the night pass. To play it cool.
This isn’t about old feelings,I tell myself as I jump behind the wheel first thing in the morning.
I take the car, head toward Main Street. The bakery’s up ahead—Honey & Hearth. Cozy with its small-town charm. I always knew Cassie could turn ashes into an empire.
The bakery sign still reads closed, but I park anyway. Fuck semantics. The lights are on, and that’s enough for me. I sit there in my car like a creep with a front-row seat to the one thing that can bring me to my knees faster than Super Bowl tickets at the fifty-yard line.
Through the window, I see her. Cassie, with her smile that makes men forget their fathers’ names.
She and Aria are turning chairs over, wiping down tables. The kid’s giggling so hard she’s practically doubled over. Cassielaughs too, with her head thrown back. Like she didn’t get chewed up by life and spat out.
I stand in my car, pretending I’ve got my shit together, but inside? Wreckage.
She looks… happy. Radiant, even now that the world’s letting her breathe, at last. And fuck me, it shouldn’t sting, but it does.
There’s this low, grinding tension beneath my sternum, like a car crash slow-motioning inside me. I should’ve been the one to give her that life. The one making plans for us. Not some sadistic fuck with an Italian last name and fists he can’t control.
I should’ve been there, but I wasn’t.
And that’s on me.
But I’m here now. And the only way Gino Esposito is getting to her is over my dead fucking body. Hiding out in my car like a coward? That’s not my style.
