Page 4 of The Hidden Heir

Men have always had opinions about it.

I've never particularly cared to hear them.

This man's jaw goes tight. And he looks away first.

He looks away?

Huh. I have no idea what to do with that.

"Miss Peroni." His voice is low and unhurried. Of course it is. Men who look like him never squeak.

He shifts his weight. His jacket moves. And I see it.

Leather strap. Black metal. The barrel too long, because of what's threaded onto the end of it.

Gun. Silencer.

Every smart thought in my head disappears.

Mikey.

My arm locks around my son so hard he squirms. "Mama."

My heart tries to climb out through my throat.

Luca watches me see the gun. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't reach for it. He just lets me know it's there, calm as a man showing his business card.

"Invite me in, Valentina." My name in his mouth, like he's owned it for years. "You don't want to have this conversation on your porch."

I stare at him. The gun. His face. The black car behind him.

I don't want to have this conversation anywhere. But wanting stopped mattering the second the porch light died.

I step back.

He wipes his shoes on my mat before he crosses the threshold. Twice, unhurried, like his mother is watching. Then he comes in and closes the door behind him.

Click.

Such a tiny sound. It feels like a vault sealing.

He looks around my living room. The toys. The folded laundry. The floral art I bought for three dollars at a church sale. His suit probably costs more than everything in this room combined. Possibly including the room.

I use the moment to angle myself, turning so that Mikey is behind the line of my shoulder, so that my body is between my son and the gun.

Luca's eyes come back. Straight to me. He catches me doing it, and something changes in his face. Barely.

Then his gaze moves past me. To Mikey.

And stops.

The dark curls. The hazel eyes, heavy with sleep, blinking at the stranger.

Stefano's curls. Stefano's eyes. Features from a man who never met him. Never asked to.

My stomach drops so hard it feels like I've missed a stair.

Anyone who ever met his father could do this math, and the man in my living room is doing it right now. One plus one. Stefano plus me. Two years old.