"What?"
"Leo's my son."
I froze.
"Sebastian said it," he said, voice soft. "He said Leo's my son. Was he lying, or—"
"He wasn't lying."
His eyes opened, looked at me.
"Leo is your son," I said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you."
He stared at me, long and hard. Something surged in those green eyes.
"I thought—" His voice cracked.
"Youthought what?"
"I thought you hated me."
"I did hate you," I said. "In France, giving birth alone, waking up in the middle of the night with nothing beside me. I hated you. For a long time."
His fingers tightened, gripped my hand.
"But I loved you more," I said.
His eyes went red.
"I never stopped loving you. In France, I thought about you every day. When I came back, I was scared to see you. When I saw you, I was scared I couldn't stop myself—"
"Stop yourself from what?"
"From telling you I still loved you."
His tears fell. Not one drop, but many, streaming down his cheeks. He lay in that bed, hand bandaged, face scratched, lips cracked, but he looked at me with eyes full of light.
"Olivia," he said, voice barely there. "Come here."
I leaned down, moved closer. His left hand lifted, slow, like it took everything he had. His finger touched my cheek and wiped away the tears.
"I love you," he said, word by word, like he was afraid I wouldn't hear. "Loved you from day one. In the club, you stood on that stage dancing, eyes full of defiance—I knew right then, I was done for."
I laughed, tears still flowing.
"I spent five years becoming a real don," he said. "Not for power, not for the family. For you. So when you came back, I wouldn't be the man who couldn't protect you anymore."
"I know."
"I sat in that seat, every single day, thinking about you. Where you were, if you were okay, if anyone was hurting you. Nearly went crazy."
"I know."
"You're not running again," he said, fingers gripping my hand tight. "You hear me? No more running."
"No more running," I said. "Never again."
He looked at me and smiled. Light and soft.
