Page 33 of His Son's Ex

I recall Linda Patterson’s brittle smile, the way she always looked at me like I was a stain on her son’s image.

“I can’t imagine her with Dante,” I say, frowning. “They just didn’t seem like a romantic match.”

“Probably more about power than love,” Halsey remarks. “Don’t forget the Pattersons used to be a big name. She probably saw Dante as the missing piece to keep up her status. Then again, she might’ve really loved him at some point. Either way, it’s all ancient history now.”

“Let’s focus on something else, like my interview,” I suggest, not wanting to discuss the issue any further. Halsey finally relents, and we shift gears into strategy mode. By the time we finish brunch, my nerves have settled. The job is everything I’ve been working toward, and despite the chaos of the past week, I can’t help but feel excited.

We pay our bill and step onto the sidewalk, the sun high overhead. Halsey shields her eyes. “All right. Time for Operation Badass Power Suit.”

She leads me to a polished boutique, where mannequins in sharp blazers and fitted skirts stand behind the glass. Inside, the scent of expensive perfume and the hum of soft jazz greets us.

A stylish sales associate approaches. “Welcome to Covella’s. How can I help you today?”

Halsey grins. “My friend needs the ultimate power suit. Something that says, ‘I eat hackers for breakfast.’”

The woman offers a half-amused smile then studies me and nods. “You’ve come to the right place. Let me show you a few options.”

For once, I don’t get the typical condescending look when shopping for professional wear. She leads us through racks of finely tailored blazers, crisp blouses, and perfectly cut trousers and skirts. I skim my fingers over the fabrics, appreciating the quality and style.

I settle on a deep navy set and step into the fitting room. Halsey waits outside, her voice carrying through the curtain. “Remember, we want CEO energy. When you walk in there, they should be begging to hire you.”

I snort a laugh, buttoning the blazer and smoothing the lapels. When I look in the mirror, I freeze. The suit hugs my waist and skims over my hips, flattering my curves and making me look unstoppable. Like I belong in a corner office.

I step out and Halsey’s delighted gasp seals the deal. “Oh my God, Eva. You look like a boss.”

A warmth spreads through me, and I feel an overwhelming sense of confidence, making me feel like I really can do this. Maybe this job isn’t just a long shot; maybe it’s mine for the taking.

The sales associate beams. “May I pin the hem? A quick alteration will give it the perfect fit.”

I nod, stepping onto the small platform. As she works, I reflect on how far I’ve come. From a scared teenager in foster care, hacking to survive, to standing in an upscale boutique, about to land the career of my dreams.

Halsey’s voice softens. “If your parents could see you now, they’d be so proud.”

My throat tightens. I rarely let myself think about them, about what I lost. But she’s right. I’ve fought hard for this moment, and I won’t let anything—not even a dangerously tempting mafia don—derail it.

Once the alterations are set, we schedule a pickup for early morning. Excitement takes over as I realize a door is opening, and I’m ready to walk through it.

We step outside, Halsey swinging a bag carrying the sleek leather portfolio and other accessories she insisted I needed. The sun is warm, the city alive, and for the first time in a long while, I feel like I belong here.

I loop my arm through hers. “Let’s celebrate. Ice cream or cocktails? Your pick.”

She grins. “Ice cream. And then we’ll get you so prepped, BK&C won’t know what hit them.”

CHAPTER 7

DANTE

Istare into my coffee cup, watching the faint ribbons of steam curl upward. The brew is dark and rich, just the way I like it, but the taste barely registers. I’m too preoccupied with thoughts of Lombardi—andher—to appreciate any flavor this morning.

Across from me, my mother, Isabella—la Nonna, as she’s known to most in our world—sits in one of the antique armchairs that have graced our study for decades.

She’s in her mid-seventies now, but she still carries herself like a queen; spine straight, chin raised, eyes gleaming with the sharp intelligence that helped build and maintain the Bellacino empire.

“Dante,” she says gently, lifting her porcelain coffee cup to her lips. “Stop brooding,figlio mio. That poor mug’s done nothing to deserve your scowl.”

I exhale, setting my cup down. “Habit, I guess. Too much on my mind.”

She arches a brow, unimpressed by such a meager explanation. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

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