Page 73 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don
I don't respond, my eyes still fixed on the pair circling the rink.
"You know," Roman continues, "there's a simple solution to your problem."
"I don't have a problem."
He snorts. "Right. And I'm not Italian." He nods toward the ice. "Paulie’s just filling a vacancy. One you created."
“What the fuck are you talking about, Roman?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You might think you’re hiding it, but you’re not. You’re attracted to Gabriella?—”
“No. I’m not,” I say through gritted teeth.
"Keep telling yourself that." Roman claps me on the shoulder. "Meanwhile, I'm going to rescue my wife from your scowling. It's scaring the baby."
He leaves me alone with my thoughts, which have become a battlefield of contradictions.
I shouldn't care. I have no right to care.
And yet watching Paulie’s hands on Gabriella makes me want to rip him apart limb by limb.
This is exactly why I avoid entanglements. They make you weak. Irrational. Vulnerable.
And still, my eyes track her every movement, cataloging each smile, each laugh, each time Paulie pulls her closer than necessary.
I'm pathetic. And I hate it.
I force myself to look away, but her pull is too strong. I walk to Roman, now holding the baby as Isabella skates with Angelica.
“I’m heading home.”
“You just got here.” Roman gives me a look that says I’m being a pussy. If he weren’t holding his son, I might shoot him for that.
“I made my obligatory appearance. Now I’m leaving. I’m handing off guardian responsibility of Gabriella to you. When she’s done, please arrange for her return to my place.”
Roman’s expression doesn’t change as he lifts his hand and salutes me.
The drive home is a blur of city lights and Christmas decorations that mock me.
I only escape it when I walk through my door, empty of wreaths and lights. Just the way I prefer it.
I descend to the basement, shedding my suit jacket and tie as I go.
I reach my private gym, stripping my clothes and putting on shorts and a T-shirt from the closet.
The punching bag receives the first assault of my frustration.
Each impact sends shockwaves up my arms.
I don't bother with gloves.
I want to feel something, anything other than this empty ache.
Paulie’s hands on her waist. Her laughter drifting across the ice. The way she looked at him.
The bag swings wildly as I unleash a combination that would shatter bones if directed at flesh.
By the time I’m finished, I’m not numb, but the intensity of my agitation is lessened.
