She bends down, her face transforming into something soft and unguarded as she speaks to him.
"Who is that?" I roll my shoulders, not liking the agitation building there.
Valentina follows my gaze. "That's Enzo."
The boy gestures emphatically, clearly upset about something. Katerina cups his face, smoothing his hair back with tenderness.
I can't tear my eyes away from them.
"He's her son," Valentina says.
A red mist clouds my vision as rage and shock surge through me like electricity.
The crystal tumbler in my hand threatens to shatter under my grip.
Who dared touch her? Who touched what was mine?
And judging by his age, this man touched her not long after I left.
“Who’s the father?”
Valentina shakes her head. "She refused to name him." Her eyes track Katerina across the room.
“Father had to have insisted.” We lived in the twenty-first century, but Mafia families still lived by an ancient archaic code when it came to women. No way would my father be okay with an unwed pregnant woman in his home unless… Alessandro? Adriano? Father himself?
“Like I said, he was fond of her. Protective even. Said anyone who questioned her further would answer to him personally."Valentina’s tone holds a note of jealousy. I don’t blame her. Our father was never fond of any of us. So why Katerina, the daughter of Bratva?
"So everyone just… accepted that?”
Valentina's voice drops lower. "People had their suspicions, but no one dared voice them. Not with Father shielding her."
I drain my glass, welcoming the burn that does nothing to douse the inferno building inside me.
Instead, it fuels it.
I set the empty glass down, though what I really want is to hurl it against the wall. "Excuse me."
Valentina catches my sleeve. "Luca, think before you?—"
I'm already moving, cutting through the crowd with purpose.
Conversations halt as I pass, heads turning to track my progress, as if they sense danger.
My focus narrows to Katerina, who's sending Enzo away with what appears to be a housekeeper.
She stiffens as I approach, clearly sensing my presence before she turns.
Those blue eyes widen slightly. She recognizes my expression, knows the storm that's coming.
Without a word, I grasp her upper arm, firm enough to brook no argument but careful not to hurt her.
Heads turn, whispers follow us as I guide her from the main hall, through a side door, and into the empty study.
"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice is ice, but I detect fear beneath.
I release her once the door clicks shut behind us, creating distance between us as if proximity to her might cloud my judgment.
"Who is Enzo's father?" The question bursts from me, and I hate that it’s coming from pain. How could she have done this to me?
