Page 61 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
I whirl to face him, every ounce of fear and frustration I’ve bottled up over the years spilling out. “You can’t just walk in here like nothing happened! Like you didn’t?—”
“Mamma?”
The small voice cuts through whatever this is like a knife. I glance down at my son, who is staring up at me with wide, questioning eyes. Luca’s gaze flicks to him again, lingering, and I feel a shift. He looks at my son the way a man looks at something precious, something he wants to protect.
I take a step back, instinctively placing myself between them.
Luca doesn’t move. His gaze returns to me, and there’s something in it that makes my stomach drop. Regret? Anger? I can’t tell.
The bakery feels impossibly small, the walls pressing in as he closes the distance. My son shifts behind me, clinging to myskirt, his tiny fingers twisting the fabric. I place a reassuring hand on his head, but my own heart feels anything but steady.
For a moment, the world holds its breath.
“I’d like a coffee,” he says quietly.
24
LUCA
The café is warm and smells of fresh bread, cinnamon, and coffee beans grinding into the perfect brew. It’s as far removed from my world as heaven is from hell. Yet here I am, waiting for her, the woman who left me five years ago and took my soul with her.
Valentina’s voice was just a whisper when she said she’d bring my coffee to the table. A pause lingered between us, heavy with everything unsaid, before she ushered the boy away—the boy whose hair is as dark as mine.
“Go help in the kitchen, Leo,” she said softly, her fingers brushing his cheek before nudging him toward the back.
I watch him shuffle off, his small frame disappearing behind the swinging door. It feels like a punch to the gut to know he’s mine, yet I’m still sitting here like a stranger in their lives.
I take the corner table, my back to the wall, because old habits are hard to kill. This place is small, almost cozy, with mismatched wooden chairs and rustic shelves lined with jars of honey and olive oil. It’s not the kind of place where I belong. But then again, she doesn’t belong here, either, even though she can’t see that, or is too stubborn to admit it.
I wait, but not idly. My mind churns, caught between rage and restraint, thinking of everything that led me here.
I spent years tearing apart the underworld looking for her. Not just for revenge—though I had plenty of it—but because I didn’t know how to stop. She became my obsession. I followed every whisper, chased every lead, only for each one to turn cold.
It was chance, or maybe fate. A month ago, a client, a merchant from Sicily who supplies fine wine to one of my restaurants, casually mentioned a bakery in his small town. Said the bread reminded him of his late wife’s. He told me the baker was a widow, an Italian-American woman with a little boy who could charm the devil himself. The name of the shop didn’t mean anything at first. But something about the story stuck. I don’t know if it was the boy or the mention of the widow, but the seed was planted.
I’d spent years paying men to track her down, and always I had failed. And yet, here she is, in Sicily, running a bakery of all things. When I walked through the door this morning, I expected anger. A fight. A cold shoulder at the very least. But the moment I saw her, all I felt was pain. Raw and unrelenting. She was more beautiful than I remembered, but there was something different now. Her face held the kind of peace I never gave her—peace I never had myself.
And the boy. My son.
My chest tightens as I think of him again. The way his eyes flicked to mine, curious but cautious, his tiny hand clinging to her skirt. He didn’t look afraid of me, but he didn’t look like he knew me, either.
“Here you go.”
Her voice jolts me from my thoughts. I look up, and there she is, placing a cup of coffee on the table. Her hand doesn’t shake, but her posture is stiff, like she’s bracing herself for impact.
“Join me,” I say softly.
She hesitates, her lips parting slightly, but no words come out. I can see the internal war she’s fighting, and I let her.
Finally, she pulls out the chair across from me and sits, her back straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She’s wearing a simple dress, but on her, it looks like a queen’s gown.
“Valentina,” I start, but the words die in my throat. Where do I even begin?
She doesn’t help. She just stares at me, her eyes guarded, waiting.
“Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” I finally ask.
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t respond.
