Mia had wondered if he was ours to keep. Scarlett and I smiled at each other when she called him, “’ine,” and fixed his hair.
Mine, she’d called her brother.
She seemed to have stars in her eyes as our parents took her home, blowing kisses as she left. My heart hurt to see her go, but she seemed to know we’d be home soon, and she’d be here every day until then.
I watched Scarlett sleep, knowing one sound from him, quiet or not, would wake her up. She’d given him to me, kissing us both, before she drifted off into well-deserved sleep. She had needed stitches this time, but nothing seemed to bother her.
Her chest rose and fell with the easy breaths she was taking, making the low, humming noise as she did.
So far, he was quiet, taking in his surroundings like he was thinking,I could fucking rule this.
“Yeah,” I said, holding him against my forearm, staring down at him. “Always remember that.”
Aside from his handsome face and braw build, he had the heart of a lion. When Scarlett had asked me what his middle name was going be, I’d said the name without even thinking.
Leone. Our lion.
It was just him and I—our eyes locked.
His opened his mouth, making a slight smacking sound, still full of his mother’s milk. She stirred at this, mumbled my name, but fell back asleep after I assured her all was well.
At the sound of her voice, his eyes moved, searching. He knew the sound of her voice already.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, son,” I whispered in Italian. “You already love her more than life itself.”
He kicked his legs at this, seeming to agree.
“One day you’ll find your own woman to love.” I caressed his forehead with a finger, back and forth, and his eyebrows drew down. “Mamma is mine, but she’s the best woman to teach you about unconditional love. The worth of a good woman before you find your own. Respect. Respect her always. All women. You are blessed to have her as a mamma, my son.”
My son.
Though he was strong, he was still fragile, his fingers not even half the size of mine, his skin tender and new. His breath smelled like milk, his hair like my wife. His features were miniature-sized versions of mine.
He depended on us for all things, and I found myself wondering how the hell I’d survived all those years with Maggie Beautiful.
She loved me, there was no doubt in my mind or heart, but the woman sometimes forgot to put her shoes on before she went outside. It was for the best we used to take public transportation to travel—she’d have probably forgotten me in the car.
An uneasy feeling came over me, wondering what kind of father I’d be to him. He was a baby, but one day he’d be a man. A man with Fausti blood pumping through his veins, and it was strong. Just by looks alone, there was no denying who his father was. Or his grandfather, for that matter.
Would he test me? Steam roll over the lines I’d draw? Would I give him toy soldiers to play with? Or tell him that men didn’t play with toys, because the solider lived within?
Would I recognize Marzio in the way I raised my son? Or would it be his son that I remembered? My father. The man who was never there, but still had consumed my life—no matter where I went, there was no forgetting that Luca Fausti was my father, and he walked beside me in shadow.
Or would our relationship be paved by my own hands? Would I forge my own way?
So full of excitement and fear, I found it hard to do much more than form the questions, leaving the answers for another time.
This son of mine was the reason I didn’t want children. I didn’t want him to have to face the same challenges that I had.
The sins of the father shall fall upon the son.
Staring at him, though, life made no sense without him. Without any of them. I’d loved him and his sister before they were even conceived, because I’d always loved their mother. And though he was all me, a hope sprung up that God entertained a sinner’s prayer too.
It was my intercession that he would have his mother’s ability to show love and not recoil when someone told him how much he meant to them.
As easily as the words flowed from my lips to my daughter’s ears, words of love and adoration, a lump formed in my throat when I thought of telling my son the same things, though I felt them all the same.
I loved him more than my own life. I was proud to call him son for the rest of his life.
