I turn to Dom, searching his face for some kind ofconfirmation that this is bullshit, that this isn’t real, that our father wasn’t keeping this kind of secret from us our whole damn lives.
But Dom says nothing. Just stands there, his jaw tense, teeth grinding together as if he’s in deep thought. Probably doing the math in his head, as I am. Elio’s about my age, I’m sure of it. I remember Rose telling me her brother was much older.
My father—the man I respected, the man I trusted—had an affair. He had a son. He kept it a secret. And now, after all these years, I find out that the man I’ve spent half my life fighting, the man I nearly killed in this kitchen, is my fucking blood.
I killed Rose’s father. Believed, with every ounce of my being, that I was doing the right thing. That I was serving justice, taking out the bastard who sent men to murder my mother.
But Elio?
Elio never even had his blood in his veins.
Elio was never the son of the man I hated.
He was the son of the man I loved. The man I admired. The man I wanted to make proud.
My fucking father.
My head pounds. I brace myself against the counter, sucking in air as if I’ve been underwater for too long.
“Dan—”
I drag a hand down my face, trying to force the world back into focus. My pulse is hammering, my lungs tight like I can’t take in enough air. But I can’t walk away.
Not from Dom.
I glance at him, expecting him to be just as wrecked, but he’s standing stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw locked tight.
He’s pissed.
Not the usual Dom kind of pissed, the type that comeswith an easy smirk and a snide comment. No, this is deeper. It’s sitting in the lines around his mouth, in the way his fingers dig into his own biceps like he’s trying to anchor himself.
I exhale sharply. “Say something.”
Dom snorts. “What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“I don’t fucking know.”
We stand there, the truth sitting between us like a loaded gun on the table, waiting for someone to pick it up.
Dom and I have spent years hating Elio, thinking he was born from the same evil we were fighting against.
Turns out he came from the same man who raised us.
Dom finally looks at me, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Do you think he knew?”
I feel my stomach twist. “Dad?”
Dom nods. “Do you think he knew Elio was his?”
My gut churns. “I don’t know.”
Dom’s jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. He paces the kitchen. “He should’ve told us.”
“Yeah, well, so should she.” I turn to Rose’s mother, the accusation clear in my tone, but I try to keep my emotions controlled. On the outside at least, because my son is sitting beside Lucia at the table, still as a rabbit caught in the crossfire.
She swallows, looking down at her hands in her lap. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid?” My voice is razor sharp. “You let us hate each other. You let me—” I stop myself, clenching my fists.
