Page 70 of Second Chance Daddy
My pulse flatlines.
The storm I’ve been dodging? It’s here and shows no signs of slowing down.
19
DANTE
Icheck my watch again.
Outside, Aria’s squeal slices through the air—loud, wild, happy—while Cassie chases her barefoot across the yard. I told them I had to check something inside. Total bullshit. Couldn’t stand there another damn minute with that little face looking up at me like I’m already hers.
Three days ago, I asked to run the test. It wasn’t hard to get samples. A strand of Aria’s hair from her brush. My blood drawn by a doctor who does home visits. The lab’s one I trust—owned by a guy who knows what happens to people who talk when they shouldn’t.
The call comes just after noon. I know the number. Knew the results were coming.
I pick it up without letting it ring twice.
“Romano?” The voice on the other end is clinical. Cold. Years of doing dirty jobs for rich men have stripped him of niceties.
“Yeah.”
“It’s confirmed.” No pause. No sugar-coating. “The little girl… she’s yours.”
Something in my chest breaks loose—a tether I didn’t know was holding me together.
“You sure?” I ask, my mind already going heady from the smackdown my emotions just received. Confusion. Hurt. Love. Anger. Pride.
“Results are definitive. 99.9% match.”
“Send me the file,” I say, pulse hammering against my throat. “And this stays buried. Anyone asks, you break their fucking fingers.”
“Understood, boss.”
I hang up and chuck the phone across the couch, burying my head in my hands.
She’s mine.
Aria’s mine.
The world should tilt, should crack open, and should rearrange itself into something new. But it doesn’t. It just keeps spinning, indifferent to the bomb that just detonated inside me.
I move to the window, checking the scene outside.
Outside, Aria runs circles around Cassie, curly hair flying free, feet kicking up grass. She’s laughing—loud, bright, the kind of sound that has me wrapped around her little finger.
She’s mine.
Every stubborn inch. Every wild smile. Every damn heartbeat.
Cassie’s got Aria on her hip now, pointing at something in the trees—probably a bird or squirrel. The kid’s face lights up, her tiny fingers reaching toward the sky, that wild blonde hair catching the sun.
The hair Cassie gave her. The eyes that mirror mine.
A memory slices through me without warning, brutal as a knife to the ribs.
I’m thirteen. Standing in my father’s study, watching him wipe blood from his knuckles with a white handkerchief like it’s nothing more than spilled wine.
“Remember this,” he says in a kind of gentle tone that’s more dangerous than rage. “Family is the only thing that matters in this life. The only thing you kill for. Or die for.”
