Page 17 of Secret Mafia Daddy

“What are we going to talk about?” she asks.

“Chelsea,” I say simply. “I want to know everything, from the moment you found out you were pregnant.”

She swallows visibly, perching on the couch arm. She’s dressed casually now, in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Her legs are long and lovely. I try not to look, reminding myself that I’m still angry.

“I was shocked, of course,” she starts. “But I knew right away that I wanted her. My stepfather was angry, demanded to know whose it was but I wouldn’t say. I told him today that we reconnected, and he didn’t seem upset, just confused.”

“Back to Chelsea,” I say, frustrated and feeling anger spread through me, making my skin feel hot. I need to know everything.

“She was born in June,” she tells me, her voice going softer. “The fourteenth, on a Sunday morning. It was about six in the morning when I started to feel the contractions. She was a preemie, you see, a month early. They had to keep her in the NICU in an incubator for a couple of weeks because she was so small. Only four pounds.”

My heart aches. I should have been there. I should have been there for every moment.

“And after that?”

“She ate sooo much,” she says, laughing softly. “She got really chubby, and she’s still bigger than most three-year-olds,” she explains. “She’s just making up for being born so small.”

“She’s perfect,” I say in a low voice, looking over at her on the couch.

Catarina looks at me, her gray eyes full of love for our daughter. “She is,” she says. “She took her first steps when she was just ten months old. Always ready to go. Started speaking at one year. Her first word was cheese.” She laughs and there’s such a fond look in her eyes it makes my heart clench.

I realize that she’s a wonderful mother, that she loves our little girl. She’s taken care of her all this time, and even if I resent her for not telling me, I have to respect her as Chelsea’s mother.

She’s done a lot for our little girl, and I’m grateful for it.

I’ve always respected single mothers, but the thing is, Catarina didn’t have to be one. From day one I would have been taking care of her and Chelsea.

“She’s so smart,” I say. Although I don’t know much about her yet, I can just sense it.

Catarina smiles. “She is.”

Chelsea stirs awake and I go to her instantly, kissing along her face until she giggles. I forget Catarina and all the worries I’ve had when she hugs me tightly.

The next couple of hours, I spend time with my little girl. I put on a tiara and play tea party with her on the floor, and Catarina snorts out a laugh when she sees me. I grin at her and continue drinking imaginary tea with Chelsea.

By the time it’s five-thirty, Chelsea has already painted my toenails with pink polish. I chuckle, looking at them as I slide on my shoes.

“You’re good with her,” Catarina muses, and it makes me feel proud that I won her over at least as the father of our child. It’s good she validates my efforts. I want to be the best dad I can be for my little girl.

We head back to the mansion and Chelsea is bouncing up and down in her car seat.

“We’re going to see Grandpa,” she says brightly.

“That’s right, honey,” Catarina says. “But we’re not going to live with Grandpa anymore.”

“Who will we live with?” she asks curiously. “Papa?”

“Yes, baby,” I croon to her, looking into the rearview mirror at her. “Papa will never leave you again.”

She smiles at me and goes back to playing with her doll, a barbie whose hair she had cut into a short, uneven bob.

Catarina is nearly silent on the drive and so am I, only occasionally speaking to Chelsea, who babbles about her dolls and what they’ve been up to in her dollhouse.

We arrive at the mansion and we head inside, being buzzed in automatically.

A man stands in the foyer when we walk in, looking fierce. He has gray at his temples, lines on his face, but he doesn’t look more than fifty. He has a hard look in his blue eyes, though, but I smile at him, sticking out my hand, while Chelsea goes to hug him around his legs.

“Hey Grampa,” she says brightly. “This is my Papa.”

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