Page 64 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
We burst into the alleyway behind the bakery. I turn to face her, my hands gripping her shoulders as I fight to rein in the possessive rage boiling inside me.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, my voice tight with fury.
“I didn’t know he was coming, and he is just a customer to me,” she snaps back, her own temper flaring. “And regardless of his standing in my life, what right do you have to act like this?”
I lean closer, my face inches from hers. “You are mine, Valentina. You don’t get to entertain roses from other men.”
She jerks away from my hold, fire sparking in her eyes. “I am not your property, Luca!”
“No,” I snarl, “You are my wife. And if you think for one second that I’ll let someone else come between us?—”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have pushed me away to begin with,” she cuts in, before turning away and storming into the bakery.
The door slams shut in my face, and I’m left on the road, with curious pedestrians ogling at me for good measure.
25
VALENTINA
The bell over the bakery door barely settles before Luca strides in behind me. I wish he’d leave, but that’s also the last thing I want him to do. He’s always been a puzzle to me. Does he love me, or is it just an obsession with needing to claim ownership over what he thinks is his? All I know is I can’t deal with this right now.
Not that he’s giving me any other option. He grips my elbow and turns me to him. I look up into his eyes, those tortured, tormented, beautiful eyes. God, I?—
“Valentina,” he says, his tone deceptively calm. “What am I to you?”
His words leave no space to breathe. My fingers press into my palms as I try to steady myself. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, the silence between us stretching like a live wire, ready to snap.
It doesn’t take long for his patience to wane. His jaw tightens, and his dark eyes narrow, a storm brewing beneath the surface.
“Say something,” he demands. His hand falls to his side, veins visible on the surface.
“What do you want me to say, Luca?” I manage, my voice thin and shaking.
“The truth.”
I take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of strength I have. “I’ve built this life for myself,” I finally reply. “By myself. There’s no room in it for a man.”
He reaches out. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a small, deliberate motion that makes my stomach churn in the worst—and best—ways. His face grows dark, and for a moment, I think he’s going to snap.
“All men?” he asks. “Or just me?”
I flinch at the question, at the way his words seem to crawl under my skin and unravel me. My silence answers for me.
He doesn’t push further. Instead, he releases my hand and pulls a small card from his pocket. He sets it on the counter between us.
“My hotel,” he says, his voice still quiet but edged with steel. “If you decide there’s room for me after all.”
Before I can react, he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow thud. I stare at the card, my chest tight, until the sound of small footsteps pulls me back.
“Mommy?” Leo’s voice is curious, his big brown eyes peeking up at me. “Who was that man?”
“No one important,” I lie, sliding the card off the counter and into my pocket. “Just someone I used to know.”
He tilts his head, unconvinced, but thankfully too distracted by the smell of fresh pastries to press further.
I decide we need to get out of here. Leo has every right to keep asking me questions about the man who looks so much like him, but I’m not sure how many of them I can answer without being unfair to him. The solution is lunch outside, at his favorite place—a pocket of calm at the cozy bistro just down the cobbled street.
The scent of fresh basil and wood-fired bread wrap around us as we enter. Leo sits perched on his favorite chair— singled out for him by the bistro’s owner— his bright eyes fixed on the personal-sized cheese pizza in front of him. He dives in with gusto, his tiny fingers lifting a gooey slice as strings of melted mozzarella stretch and snap.
