Page 103 of Break My Heart

I tighten my grip on Leo’s hand as the lift climbs, but he doesn’t react. Doesn’t squeeze back or even look at me. He’s here, but he’s not present.

“Leo,” I say softly.

Nothing.

The doors open on our floor. I don’t hesitate. I pull him forward, down the hall, and into the suite, registering the tears falling down his face as we step inside.

“Dad?” I call over my shoulder, already pushing Leo toward our bedroom, “You’ll stay out here until Dario gets here?”

“Didn’t plan on leaving, Pumpkin,” he replies, his tone shifting immediately into something controlled.

The door to the bedroom closes behind us. Everything Leo’s been holding back shatters.

“Hey—” I start, but even as I’m guiding him toward the bed, his knees give out. He winds up sitting on the edge, devastated by confronting his past in the worst way possible. I sit beside him, just needing to be close enough to anchor him.

“Leo,” I say again, softer this time, my hand coming up to turn his face in my direction.

His eyes are red rimmed from his tears. “He’s—” His voice cuts off, rough and uneven. “Albert’s gone. His son…”

I just wait, knowing his agony is only beginning.

“He didn’t—” He swallows hard, jaw tightening. “He didn’t even say their names.”

My chest aches sharply because I caught that amid the other vitriol spewed by Alfred Hawthorne. It’s not just that his brother is gone; it’s that he’s already been dismissed. Diminished.

Just like Leo was.

“That’s on him, not you,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He shakes his head, a sharp, almost disbelieving motion. “He implied Albert was killed by someone trying to emulate me. Why would he—what would make him say that?”

There’s no answer that makes sense or will turn back the clock to before we entered the hotel lobby. I shift closer, my hand sliding into his, threading our fingers together, forcing that connection. “Look at me,” I urge gently.

It takes a few seconds before his eyes find mine.

And God, it nearly breaks me. I’ve seen Leo determined. He’s poured himself into being regretful and demonstrating his love. But I’ve never seen him this raw, like an unprotected wound.

“Whatever happened,” I say quietly, “it wasn’t your fault.”

His expression tightens, something darker flickering behind the grief. “That’s not what my father would say.”

“I don’t care what he’d say,” I snap, sharper than intended. Then softer, “I care about what’s true.”

A tear clings to his lashes, but it doesn’t fall. His voice falters. “I didn’t even…I haven’t spoken with Albert since the night my father threw me out. And his son? My God, Chris. His little tyke would have been eleven? Twelve?”

That’s the quiet devastation driving Leo’s pain. It isn’t just loss or seeing his father; it’s the realization that there are times when you don’t have an opportunity to revisit your past.

I lift my hand to his face, my thumb brushing the apple of his cheek. “You were eighteen when you left, Leo. You survived despite the odds against you.”

His breath catches and he slowly leans into my touch. I continue, “But you chose who you became. You still get to choose who to let in.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “And I almost screwed that up too.”

There it is. His grief is tangling with latent guilt.

I shake my head immediately. “No.”

His brow furrows slightly, like he’s about to argue.