Page 100 of Arianna

Fuck, my baby’s smile could make the devil’s heart melt. That, I am sure.

Because she did it with me.

Her eyes undid me, and her smile brought me back to life when all I had in me was anger and an emptiness that only fueled that anger.

Don’t get me wrong. I am still a miserable bastard to everyone else but her. And she is growing too fast for my liking. Not long ago, she was this tiny little baby that could fit in one arm, and now she's talking and giving me sass as if she is grown. I also don’t miss the cupcake next to Ellaiza’s right hand with white frosting and the letter A on it.

Arianna’s birthday is not that far behind.

Sighing, I type a quick message to Banning, reminding him to kiss her goodnight for me since I will not make it tonight.

One night a month, I don’t get to tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.

This reminder only adds to my bad mood.

Seeing the time, I notice I am late, but let the bastard wait. It is about time he got a state of his own medicine. Thiago has a bad habit of not only annoying me with his useless chatter at times but also his bad habit of running late every time we meet.

I proceed to tap the notification that Arianna posted a new photo on her account. I don’t know how to feel about this new hobby of hers. She took learning other languages to occupy her time and learned how to play chess while she made up her mind on what to do with her life long-term, and now she added social media to the list.

After countless nights when I should be busy focusing on work or the campaign, I opted to stalk her social media because, as idiotic as it might seem, somehow, it made me feel as if I was learning her heart.

What makes her…her, and it only served to feed this unhealthy obsession I have with the girl.

Not only does she post images of herself but also of things that make her smile and that she wishes to experience one day. How could I forbid her something that makes her smile and brings her joy?

I wish she didn’t have as big of a following as he has.

Many eyes on her.

Looking at what does not belong to them.

She has as many followers as most famous people on the platform.

I assume they enjoy her content and wish to see more.

That is what fucks me up.

There are countless photos of her looking beautiful and like the true definition of sin. The girl could rival any high-end supermodel on a catwalk with her beauty. The content on her page is all white and pink, colors I used to find bland until I saw them not only on my child but also on my walking and talking headache.

Arianna only wears three colors.

Black, pink, and white.

The brat says that everything else looks tacky on her.

Chuckling, I find her latest post. An image of a tiny vintage cafe.

She must have found the photo on social media and posted it like most of the other content on her page. I stare at the photo for a long moment before an idea comes to mind, reinforcing the fact that I have lost my mind.

“Fucking Parisi.” I breathe aloud.

I have lost my mind, indeed.

A knock on my windshield brings me back to the now before the right-hand man of Sandoval opens the door to my Maserati.

“Senator,” Rodrigo says as he steps back for me to stand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

Rodrigo Valencia is a tank of a man. I have witnessed him take three men down who posed a threat to his future capo with only his bare hands.

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