Page 8 of A Son Hidden from the Sicilian

She could picture it. Which did not send the sharp bolt of fear through her as it should. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked instead.

“I do not care howyoufeel. I care that my son breathes, even as we speak, and I have never once laid eyes on him or held him. That every choice about his life has been kept from me. My own flesh and blood. I care that you are the architect of this betrayal.”

“Betrayal? Betrayal is being left without a word. Without a second glance. Betrayal is beingabandoned. You lied to me, time and time again.”

“You knew who I was.”

“No, I did not, Lorenzo. Not how you mean. Your name, your body, the man you wanted me to think you were, yes, but not the business, the billionaire status, the cruelty in the name of it. I was going to tell you about the pregnancy, but first I had to find out how to reach you—because you’d certainly left me no ability to do so. And all I found was story after story about how the father of my child was a cruel, dangerous man.”

“Do you think I would hurt my own flesh and blood? Is this how little you think of the men you invite into your bed?”

“Who was I supposed to believe, Lorenzo? The man who’d left me high and dry after two months of lies, or a series of stories that no one refuted except your publicist, with a tepid statement I knew you had nothing to do with.”

“You were supposed to inform me I had a son.”

“No. A mother’s job is to protect her son. No matter what.Thatis what I did.” Even now, hearing him deny the accusations against him and believing him—whether she should or not—she knew she’d done the right thing. Protecting Gio was all that could ever matter.

But guilt settled in her gut like acid at the way he’d said,“I care that my son breathes, even as we speak, and I have never once laid eyes on him or held him.”

With such barely contained emotion she could only think howhorribleit would have been to have missed all Gio’s firsts. Those sleepless nights, the gurgling smiles, the warmth of a baby’s cuddle.

It made her want to soften, apologize, insist they fly home right now so he could meet his son.

But this couldn’t happen. She had to protect Gio. And until she knew for certain her child would be safe from the violence surrounding this man, she had to do whatever she could to keep them apart.

Lorenzo did not have a temper. Anger and impetuousness had never served him well, so he’d never allowed himself outbursts. The oldest of ten, he’d had to learn at a very young age—so young he barely remembered—how to be responsible, how to control what he felt, how to put others first when they needed it.

In a house full of hungry mouths, many had needed it.

But his family was no longer destitute. He had more money than a god. He enjoyed his work, his life, and didn’t allow himself very often to consider the fear and pain of growing up the way he had.

But ever since his investigator had brought him news of this child this afternoon, he’d been reminded of the darkest times in his life. The anger that threatened to take hold and destroy everything he held dear.

He had a son. The child was over a year old. Walking and no doubt doing some talking—Lorenzo was well versed in child development. He’d helped raise most of his youngest siblings from diapers to adulthood—and he had not known his own son existed.

Anger, sharp and dark and dangerous, swirled inside of him like its own entity. The only time he could remember feeling this furious before was a time he never let himself consider. Memories too painful to ever address.

How dare this woman bring them up in him.

“You should get dressed or we will be late,” he said to her. In cool, calm tones because he was in control. He was in charge ofeverything.

Except the boy she’s kept from you.

She stared at him, still clutching the edges of her fluffy hotel robe together. As if it were armor that would save her. He could force her to miss the party, the art show in a few days. It would be her just due to miss these opportunities for her career.

But that would be needlessly cruel, and while he might be all for that on a personal level, he also knew what it was to be the child of a parent who grew more and more bitter with the other. Who blamed and manipulated and used and hurt.

He would not give that to his child.

On the other hand, he could leave Brianna here and fly to New Jersey himself and lay claim to the boy.

But he would not put his son through anything that might scar him. Arriving a stranger without the boy’s mother would not be what was best for the child. Even if Brianna deserved to miss two years of their son’s life in retribution.

Someday, he would find a way to punish her. But it would not be at his child’s expense. Never.

He would give Brianna one thing. The vehement way she spoke of protecting her child at any cost was good. He could even admit—at least in the privacy of his thoughts—he imagined she was a good mother. It was that warmth, that nurturing she’d shown him two years ago she no doubt showered on her own child.

But that did not excuse her actions. Protection did not excuse them either. Believing paparazzi fodder and unfounded accusations was...

---