Page 59 of Dirty Lyrics
I whip my head around just as Rico strides into the living room, black fire in his eyes, golden heat in his smile.
He’s holding a bouquet of pink tulips—my favorite—and before I can even process the sight, he crushes his mouth to mine.
The kiss is hard, hungry, claiming.
He doesn’t even glance at my father.
“I missed you, Songbird,” he whispers against my lips.
“Me too,” I murmur back, grinning through the fierce press of his kiss.
He kisses me again, longer this time, a deliberate show that makes my father clear his throat.
“Look, Rico, you don’t have to convince me you love Maya. I don’t care about that,” my father snaps, though his tone is thinner now, less certain. “But I’m giving you this offer one time only?—”
“And that just makes you a shitty father. But I believe my wife answered you already,” Rico cuts in, his arm snaking around my waist as he pulls me close, anchoring me against his side.
His voice is steel wrapped in fire as he glares at my dad.
“Rico’s finally free. He doesn’t need you, your contracts, or your claws in him. We’re doing this our way.”
The air feels charged, heavy with something old and raw.
For a moment, I see the two men facing off—my father with his empire, my husband with nothing but his conviction and love for me—and I know without a doubt whose side I’m on.
My father studies me for a long, tense moment. Then he exhales, some of the bravado slipping away like a mask cracking. His shoulders sag just slightly.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer, gentler. Almost human.
“You always were your mother’s girl,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Stubborn as hell. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
He looks down at the drink in his hand, then back up at me, eyes strangely tired.
“I know I was a shit dad. I know that. But maybe?”
His lips twitch, uncertain, like he’s not sure he deserves to say it.
“Maybe I can meet my grandkid sometime.”
The words knock the breath out of me.
For a heartbeat, I don’t see the mogul. Don’t see the caricature in his linen suit, dripping in chains like a man desperate to be seen.
I see what he was supposed to be. My father.
I swallow hard, pressing my hand to my belly, feeling the reassuring kick of life beneath my palm.
“Maybe,” I whisper, voice shaking but sure. “We’ll see.”
Rico’s hand squeezes my waist, firm and grounding, and I lean into him, into us.
And when my father’s smile flickers—small, tired, almost real—I wonder, just for a second, if Alberto Gold actually meant what he said.
Only time will tell, but I won’t waste any of mine wondering about it—or about him. My father made his bed a long time ago, and I’m done trying to crawl under the covers with his ghosts.
Besides, I have everything I want right here.
Rico’s arms wrapped around me.
