Page 93 of Second Chance Daddy
I look at him—the quiet violence simmering under his skin—and the pieces start falling into place. I wipe my eyes in disbelief. “Who even are you?”
“My father—he’s head of the Bratva operations in Russia and most of Eastern Europe. Has been ever since he married my mother. Politics, business… everything. His reach stretches beyond borders.”
“My family,” he continues, “built the Romano name here, under the Bratva umbrella. I was born to lead it out here, before taking over his position of power.”
“And where have you been the last three years?” I ask, piecing together the puzzle I’ve been staring at with blind eyes.
“Russia.” His shoulders stiffen. “The first time around, my father wanted me to train there, and then… Well, I couldn’t be here, so I left again. I came back to handle things when it looked like I was needed here.”
“To handle things,” I echo. “Your little crime empire?”
His silence is answer enough.
“And now you’re what? Back? For good?” I can’t help but scoff at that thought.
“I’m back because it’s time for me to build something here of my own.” His voice is steady, certain. “I run America, and I want to run it differently from how my father did.”
The words hit me like bricks to the chest.
“You’re telling me,” I whisper, barely holding the pieces together, “that your father runs a criminal empire across a whole country, and you’re next in line to run… what? The global mafia?”
He doesn’t flinch. “In fewer words? Yes.”
My head spins.
“You let me fall in love with a killer?” The accusation explodes out of me, sharp and bitter, years of trauma cracking open at once. “Again?”
I hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t even admitted it to myself—but there it is.Love. The four-letter wretched word that’s always been my downfall.
His eyes darken. He noticed what I said. My cheeks blush red.
“You already did,” he says quietly, stepping closer, gaze locked on mine. “That night, three years ago.”
I close my eyes, remembering. The heat. The desperation. How safe I felt in his arms. How I imagined he was different from Gino. How could that man and this one be the same person?
The dichotomy in my brain is too big to reconcile. Dante was supposed to be my safe place, different in a million ways from Gino, and now, here I stand, discovering he’s cut not only from the same cloth, but a firmer, harder, stronger cloth.
How has my life come to this?
When I open my eyes, I feel the tears pouring down my face.
Before I can shatter all over him, the door creaks again.
Tiny footsteps pad across the floor.
Both our heads snap toward the sound.
Aria stands in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes, wild curls sticking out, her tiny face still pink from sleep.
And then—one word.
“Daddy?”
The room cracks apart.
My chest caves, sobs shoving their way up, tears burning as they spill free.
I break.
