Page 159 of Ricardo

Dante is staring at me.

His face empties of all expression first. Then the shock comes through, sharp and unmistakable.

“What?”

“I’m seeing Ricardo,” I say, my voice barely steady. “Your father.”

He stares at me as if he has misheard.

Now comes disbelief.

Then he stands so fast the chair knocks back against the wall.

I flinch.

Dante sees it, and pain flashes across his expression before anger burns over it.

“My father,” he says.

“Yes.”

“My father.”

“Yes.”

“No.” He laughs once, harsh and stunned, and takes two steps away from me. “No. Absolutely not.”

My stomach drops.

“I didn’t plan for this to happen.”

“Oh, good. Wonderful.” His voice rises.

I inhale sharply.

His mouth twists as soon as he says it, but he does not take it back.

“How long?” he demands.

“Recently.”

His eyes flash. “Do not insult me.”

I swallow. “About a week.”

“A week.” He stares at me.

“Yes.”

His face hardens into something that frightens me more than his raised voice.

“You've been sleeping with my father for a week, and you're just telling me?”

My throat closes. I nod once.

He turns away, dragging both hands through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

“I wanted to tell you before.”