Page 152 of Broken Mafia Bride
And that had been the end of that conversation. He hasn’t tried to reach out, and despite Giulia constantly trying to bring up making peace with him, I’ve also pretty much ignored him.
If there’s one thing I know about my father, it’s that he’s a proud man. He’s worked his whole life to turn me into a cold, efficient machine that he’d be proud of. He’s always seen me as weak, but I had spotted a reluctant respect in his eyes in our last conversation.
He’s finally seeing me as the son he’s always wanted, but now, he’s also realizing that he’s not the father I want, and he’s going to have to re-evaluate a lot of choices he’s made if he wants to keep our relationship alive.
My father is the last person I want to think of right now, though.
“I know, Papa,” she sighs.
I can’t even be mad at her anymore. It took over a week before Giulia finally had the talk with Noemi, telling her that I’m her father. We’d discussed it beforehand, bracing ourselves for shock—or at least some confusion—on our daughter’s part.
But we were the ones who ended up shocked when she took it so well. Two days later, she called me “Papa” for the first time. It felt like that single word rearranged my entire world. Nothing has been the same since.
It’s still hard to believe that I’m a father to this beautiful, amazing girl. Giulia did a good job raising her. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for her, but she pulled through somehow.
I can’t wait to make things official today. She’ll be my wife by the end of the day. Giulia Gagliardi. It does have a nice ring to it.
“What are you thinking about?” Noemi’s voice cuts through my daze.
I blink back to the present and find her watching me with open curiosity, her mouth pursed. At first glance, it’s easy to say she’s a spitting image of me, with her curly dark hair and big blue eyes, but on closer inspection, her hair isn’t entirely black. It’s a very dark shade of brown, and her facial bone structure is all Giulia.
The jaw that ends in a stubborn point, the top lip that’s a little bit fuller, and the shape of her nose. She’s a perfect combination of the both of us, and I love her so much.
“I’m thinking that?—”
The door flies open, and the damn fisherman walks in. He’s not in his usual baggy jeans and Henleys for once. The suit he has on is surprisingly well-fitted, but he looks ill at ease in it, a barely visible grimace on his face.
“Uncle Marco!” Noemi cries, scrambling out of my lap to hug the other man.
My jaw snaps together in annoyance as I watch him ruffle her hair, making a mess of the ponytail I managed to put her hair up into. What the fuck is he doing here anyway?
I rise to my full height, staring him down with my hands stuck in my pockets.
“Hey, angel.” He goes down to his haunches, smiling at her and taking care to ignore my presence altogether. My fingers curl into fists inside my pockets.
Giulia has already warned me not to put her or Noemi in a difficult position between Marco and me, which means the two of us have to play nice—even though it’s clear we’re both itching to break each other’s jaw.
Finally, he reluctantly drags his gaze over to me. “Raffaele.”
“Marty.” I nod, choosing to be an asshole.
A mocking smile curves his mouth as he glances back at my daughter. “Uncle Marco is here to save the day. Ta-da.” He holds out a box with a lilac bow around it.
Noemi screams in excitement, hopping in place happily. “What is it, Uncle Marco? Is it a tiara? Is it a teddy bear? Is it a dog?”
“You already have a dog,” I grumble. My big, ferocious dog, which I got back from Alessia, has been turned into a little teddy bear by my kid. The worst part is that the dog now completely ignores me, preferring to follow Noemi around the house like a bodyguard.
She pouts at me. “He needs a friend.”
I sigh.
To my surprise, Marco shoots me a sympathetic look. “It’s not a dog. It’s something else. Go ahead and open it.”
Noemi dives forward, ripping the bow away and pushing the top of the box open. An ear-splitting squeal rips out of her throat as she spots what’s inside the box. I step forward and peek in curiously.
She yanks the piece of fabric out and begins to twirl around. “Papa, look! Uncle Marco’s bought me a dress, and it’s my favorite color.”
I watch as she rushes over to the full-length mirror, holding the lilac dress against her body excitedly. I narrow my eyes at Marco, who looks smug—especially when my daughter flies toward him, giggling, and wraps her arms around him in a hug.
