Page 134 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I lean in, my forehead resting against hers, our breath mingling.
"That child... our child... will carry my blood. It can't be hidden or washed away. It's a part of them, forever."
I feel her shiver, not from the cooling water, but from the weight of my words.
"So you have a choice, Elisa. You can run. You can take that part of me growing inside you and you can spend the rest of your lifelooking over your shoulder, waiting for a shadow that will never stop coming."
My voice drops, deadly serious, the promise of a man who has seen the darkest corners of the world and is not afraid to burn them down.
"Or you can stay. You can stand right here, next to me. You can let me be the father. The protector. You can see what it looks like when a man like me has something real to fight for. You can watch me tear apart anyone, any organization, any fucking country that even thinks about threatening what's mine."
I pull back, my eyes locking with hers, letting her see the absolute, unshakable certainty there.
The violence and the devotion, two sides of the same coin.
"You can run from me,mia cara. Or you can stand with me and let me set the whole goddamn world on fire to keep our family safe. The choice is yours. But choose now."
The water sputters, finally going cold.
She doesn't flinch.
She just looks at me, her hand coming up to rest over mine on her cheek.
The fear is still there, but it's been eclipsed by something else, something fiercer.
A dawning, terrible resolve.
"I'm not running," she whispers.
And then, stronger, her voice clear in the dripping silence. "I'm staying."
A grim, profound satisfaction settles in my chest. I turn off the water.
The sudden quiet is deafening.
I reach for a thick, cotton towel and wrap it around her, then one around my own waist.
I lead her, silent and steady, out of the bathroom and back toward the bedroom.
24
ELISA
The apartment smells like coffee and soap and something faintly metallic, the kind of morning scent that means someone cleaned the kitchen before the sun came up.
Nico did.
He leaves no mess, not even in the way he leans against the counter.
The window above the sink shows a slice of Brooklyn sky still pale with cold.
I pull my knees up on the stool, hair still wet, notebook open, trying to draw what the day looks like.
It keeps coming out as boxes and lines instead of faces.
He sets a cup in front of me.
I don’t look at him yet.
