Of course her father’s needs come first. He’s family.
But on the nights the nurse stays over, and I have Erica all to myself all night…
It’s not enough. I want that every night.
I start the engine and pull away from the curb, irritation pressing hard under my ribs.
Not at her.
At the situation.
At the fact that “a couple nights a week” somehow became something I simply tolerate instead of something I accept.
It should be fine.
Most men would be satisfied with what I have.
Most men aren’t me.
And Erica isn’t most women.
I pull into the drive of the house I left not too long ago, and the gate opens without hesitation. The house is lit up, the way it always is when everyone’s there. Noise. Movement. People who don’t know how to be quiet.
They loved her.
I saw it.
I saw it in Caterina’s eyes, already claiming her like a sister. In Bianca’s warmth, immediate and protective. In Roberto’s calm approval. In Olivia smiling at her. Even Vito, being a menace, seemed… pleased.
And my father.
Luca watched her the way he watches everything—carefully, weighing, assessing. Then he nodded once, and that was it for him.
That should scare me.
It doesn’t.
What scares me is how simple this feels in my head. How easy it is to picture.
Erica in my house every night. Erica in my bed, not as a guest, not as a temporary arrangement based on a nurse’s schedule.
Just… mine.
I park, cut the engine, and sit there for a beat with my hands on the wheel.
I’ve taken the next step in business a hundred times without blinking. In violence, without flinching. In anything that matters, I move. So why am I hesitating now?
Because it’s not just a step.
It’s her.
And I already know the truth. I want more. I want all of it.
Every night. Every morning.
Her laughter in my kitchen. Her things in my drawers. Her mouth on mine without a clock running in the back of her head.
I love her. So why not?
