Page 115 of His Son's Ex

I manage a small smile. “Yeah. I’m trying. And you’re right. It’s just still so much to process.”

She reaches out and gently squeezes my knee. “Whenever you’re ready to face the Bellacinos, I’m sure Dante will be waiting.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s too busy with mobster housekeeping. I’m sure he’s got bigger fish to fry.”

“Oh, come on. He’s been checking in with me daily to make sure you’re doing okay. He’s really not all that intimidating if you ask me. He clearly cares about you.”

I smile. I know she’s right.

I spend the next few days thinking, questioning, and teetering on the edge of making a decision. Meanwhile, Halsey keeps me updated on every scrap of news. Dante is apparently holed up in the Bellacino mansion, orchestrating alliances with Abramovic, rearranging the new normal.

Time passes. My body heals. My bruises fade. The nurse who examined me when I first arrived here visits weekly, checking on the baby’s vitals and performing regular ultrasounds with a mobile ultrasound machine. The baby’s kicks get stronger as they grow, a daily reminder that I need to figure out our future sooner rather than later. Each night, I drift off imagining what it would be like to raise this child away from the mafia, a quiet and dull life.

But once morning arrives, I feel the tug of Dante’s presence, the ghostly memory of his arms holding me. The heartbreak in his eyes when he knew I thought he killed my father. The relief when I found out he didn’t.

I have to get serious about building something resembling a real life—something stable, something whole. I can’t keep dancing around the inevitable. I have to face the subject I’ve been avoiding the most.

It’s a sunny afternoon. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, thumb scrolling through my contact list until I find the number I’m looking for. One of Dante’s most trusted men.

I’m ready to come to the estate. I want to speak with them.

For a second, I just sit there. Once I send the message, it’s done. The quiet hiding phase ends. No more safe walls. No more excuses.

I hit send.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Understood. We’ll pick you up in 30. Be ready.

That’s it. No fanfare. No delays. Just thirty minutes until I walk back into the lion’s den.

I set the phone down, my palms clammy, thoughts caught somewhere between dread and perhaps hope. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know if I’m ready to see Dante again. But what I do know is I’m done stalling.

It’s time to face whatever comes next.

An hour later, I find myself standing outside the imposing doors of the Bellacino mansion once again, a slight breeze rustling my hair.

My footsteps echo on the polished marble floors of the foyer, the grand chandelier above throwing patterns of light across the glossy surfaces. I’m flooded with memories of the way I felt the last time I was here—uncertain and nervous. I’m still uncertain but no longer nervous. This time, I’m downright determined.

I’m led into a small sitting room where Isabella is perched on a plush, velvet couch. She looks up as I enter, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

“Eva,” she says, standing. “Good to see you.”

I cross my arms, measuring my words. “It had to happen eventually.”

She nods. “You look well, all things considered.” Her gaze drifts to my belly, a look of admiration on her face.

I clear my throat. “I’ve had a few weeks to think, to rest, to process. Rumors are swirling, and from what I gather, your alliances are relying on me to forgive you.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Straight to business, I see. Yes, the Russians value you—your child, specifically—as a potential bridge between our families.” Her voice softens. “But I’m more concerned about bridging the gap between you and Dante.”

I let out a short laugh. “You say it like you had nothing to do with that gap. You killed my father, Isabella. Then you lied about it and let your son take the blame.”

She winces, and I sense real regret. “I know, and I’ve apologized, but that doesn’t erase the damage. I won’t ask you to forget, nor can I expect you to forgive me, but perhaps we can still find a path forward. For the sake of your child, for the sake of peace between the Italians and the Russians.”

I meet her gaze head-on. “I can forgive in time, but I’ll never forget. One day, you’ll pay for what you did—maybe not with your life, but with the weight of your guilt. That’s between you and whatever higher power you believe in. For now, however, I do agree we need to stand united.”

She exhales heavily, relief crossing her features. “Thank you. That’s more than I deserve.”

---