Page 79 of Mafia King's Secret Baby

Outside of Luna’s room, she pauses. I hear her breathe in a deep, shuddering breath.

She won’t look at me.

That’s okay. I don’t need her to.

I just need her to hear.

I move close enough so that I know she can hear me. I inhale, then say the three words that have been eating at me all night. The three words that I never, ever thought I would say to her, or to anyone for that matter.

The three words that need, for some reason, to be said.

“Caterina,” I whisper, making sure I have her attention.

Her eyes snap to mine, and before she darts into the room, I say it.

“You were right.”

The next morning,I am the one avoiding Caterina.

I’m not entirely certain why. I do not often admit that I am wrong, true. But if there is one thing that overrides my pride, it is my honor.

My honor demanded that I tell her the truth.

But my pride hides from it.

Instead, I bury myself in accounts. I answer emails that I would never usually bother to. Nico probably thinks that I have lost my goddamn mind, and perhaps I have, but I do all that I can to remain in the moment, and to keep my brain from thinking of the woman who lives in my home.

My wife.

It is late afternoon when something disturbs me.

I hear a small, quiet tapping at my door.

I pause.

Francesca doesn’t knock. She leaves me things at strategic places, where I will be able to find them when I emerge. She does not interrupt things.

And the knock is too small to have been Caterina’s.

My heart feels like it is in my throat, but I rise. I creep over to my office door, and slowly, I turn the handle.

I look down.

A pair of grey eyes that I now realize look like mine blink back up at me. “Hello Mr. Mommy’s Friend.”

She has adopted the name so well.

“Hello, Luna.”

She smiles. “Can you make grilly cheese?”

I have no clue whatsoever what this thing is. “Pardon?”

“Grilly cheese. It has cheese and bread and Mommy puts it in the pan and makes it toasty, but I don’t like it to be too toasty, or Mommy has to take off the bad parts.”

She blinks, and even though my child has spoken to me in English, I haven’t the faintest clue what she needs. “Is this… a food?”

She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. “Yes silly, it’s a sandwich.”