“Do you have a sitter for Leon tonight? All night?”
The question is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to process it. I was expecting threats and possessive declarations, but not that.
“What?”
“Leon.” His voice is quieter now. “Is someone watching him tonight?”
I stare at him, thrown completely off-balance. “Rosa has him. He’s sleeping over with his cousins.”
“Good.” Something eases in his shoulders.
In the middle of his jealous rage, carrying me out of a restaurant like a caveman, he stopped to make sure my son was taken care of while he kidnapped me.
“He’s a beautiful, happy boy, Mina.” His eyes hold mine. “You’ve done well with him. But he needs a father. I want to be his father.”
My heart stops.
He’s figured it out. He’s seen Leon’s face and realized I’m lying about his date of birth.
But there’s no accusation in his expression. No triumph. Just a quiet certainty that makes my stomach drop for an entirely different reason.
He’s not saying,I should be Leon’s father because I am.
He’s saying,I want to be Leon’s father regardless.
He would claim another man’s child just to claim me. He would raise a boy he believes isn’t his, love him, give him the Montoni name, all to keep me in his life.
I don’t know if that’s beautiful or terrifying.
The elevator doors open.
We’re in a penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering Malus skyline, and the room is all clean lines and expensive surfaces. Leather sofas, abstract art, a bar stocked with crystal decanters. A view of the city that makes everyone below look like ants.
Cristiano’s hand slides from my waist to the small of my back.
He guides me forward into the penthouse, and I take in the opulence with growing unease. This is his world. Wealth, power, and danger, all wrapped in Italian leather and charcoal silk. I don’t belong here, but he’s looking at me like I’m the most valuable thing in the room.
I turn to him. We’re past pretending. Past politeness. I want to see the monster. All of him. I want to know exactly how dark it gets.
“That day I twisted my ankle,” I say, remembering that sunny afternoon five years ago that completely changed my life. “When I fell in the gutter.”
His hand stills on my back. “Yes?”
“You came out of nowhere on your motorcycle. I know now you were stalking me.” I search his expression. “You stared at me. For a long time. I couldn’t see your face through the visor, but there was tension in your body. Something strange about the way you held yourself. Something that made me shiver. What were you thinking?”
“I’m trying so hard to be what you need, Mina.” His voice drops. “Don’t make it impossible.”
His words should scare me. Theydoscare me. But beneath the fear, there’s a morbid curiosity that’s been gnawing at me for years.
“Tell me,” I press. “When I was lying there helpless in the street, what was going through your head?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His amber eyes are dark and unreadable. “You don’t want to know.”
I’ll probably regret this tomorrow, or possibly as soon as the words leave his mouth, but I hold his gaze. “Tell me.”
Heat kindles behind his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is lower and rougher, like the memory alone is doing something to him.
“You looked so small.” His hand slides up my back, slow and deliberate. “So fragile. Sitting in the gutter with tears clinging to your lashes, cradling your ankle like a wounded bird. So pretty in your pain.”
