Page 63 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
That’s something.
"I saw them," I say.
Her posture changes. "Where?"
"Outside. They were playing."
Gianna’s gaze sharpens. "And?"
"They’re smart. They’re loud. They’re...happy."
She swallows, but says nothing.
"I didn’t come to pick another fight," I tell her. "I know how I acted earlier. I lost control. I was angry and embarrassed and I said things I shouldn’t have."
She leans against the doorframe.
Her arms stay crossed, but she’s listening.
"I’ve never been anyone’s father," I continue. "I didn’t grow up thinking that role was for me. I barely know how to stay still for more than a week at a time."
"You think I don’t know that?"
She frowns slightly, clearly wondering where I’m going with this.
I flex my fingers against my thigh, dragging out the seconds while I scrape together something halfway decent to say.
"I know you do. But I still want you to hear it from me."
She shifts her weight, one bare foot skimming against the edge of the rug, the motion subtle but telling, as though some invisible thread inside her is beginning to fray.
"Dante, I’m not saying I did the right thing. I’m not…"
Her voice stumbles, and she lifts both hands to her face, dragging her palms down slowly, like the truth has grown too heavy to carry without her body buckling under it.
I watch her fingers linger at her temples, pressing circles into her skin, the silence between us thickening as her next words gather breath.
"I don’t know what I was doing back then, except that I didn’t want my kids being around someone who could run if things got too hard."
Her eyes meet mine, and the flicker there is raw, not accusing, just worn.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck, skin prickling, some old defense trying to rise, but I force it back down.
"And it does get hard. They’re kids, they expect you to be around for them come hail or shine."
She lets out a dry laugh that barely reaches the corners of her mouth, then clasps her elbows like she’s holding herself in place.
"And…it can be exhausting at times," she admits, voice pitched low, "but it’s so worth it, if you’re actually in love."
Her gaze drops to the floor, lingering there for a beat too long.
"But if you’re not, you begin looking at it like a prison. And I’ll be damned," she says, lifting her chin again, steady now, "if I let you see my kids as a cage holding you back from whatever it is that you consider life."
I stare at her, not because I have something to say, but because I don’t.
What she just said—about love, about the cage, about how damn hard it is—it winds its way into places I don’t usually let anything reach.
I’ve never had to explain myself to anyone, not beyond a smirk, a shrug, and a goodbye.
