Chapter 19
NINA
“Mommy, can I have a little brother?”
I nearly choke on my water. Austin and I have been playing Chutes and Ladders for the past hour, during which he’s peppered me with his usual stream of consciousness questions. “Why do giraffes have long necks?” “Can wolves talk to dogs?” “What makes people fall in love?”
That last one surprised a laugh out of me. Turns out he saw it on some cartoon where a cat declared his love for a can of tuna. My fish-hating six-year-old can’t wrap his head around it.
But this question? This one stops me cold.
“Did you hear me?” He flicks the spinner and moves his piece up a ladder, putting himself miles ahead of me on the board. “I want a little brother like James has.”
James is his best friend from kindergarten, and with any luck, they’ll be in the same class when first grade starts this fall.
“It’s not that simple, bud.” I take my turn and immediately slide down a chute, sealing my inevitable defeat. “I can’t just make a brother appear out of thin air.”
“It would have to grow in your belly first, right?”
I nod, already seeing where this is headed.
“But how does it get—”
“Look!” I point frantically at the spinner. “You can win!”
Austin gasps and moves his piece to the finish line.
I make a big production of celebrating his victory, clapping and cheering until he’s too distracted to continue his line of questioning.
Thank God for small victories—I’m nowhere near ready for that conversation.
We’re setting up another game when my phone buzzes.
The text is from a number I don’t recognize, but when I open it, I nearly drop the phone.
How do you feel today? -A
Alessio.
I stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Why would my boss be checking on me? Last night he was brutal for me. Gentle after. But this? A text asking how I feel? That feels personal in a way we haven’t defined yet.
And if it’s personal, I can’t keep pretending the secret I carry doesn’t matter. The closer he gets, the harder it will be to keep him out.
Finally, I type back a simple response telling him I’m okay. It’s true enough.
I set the phone aside, but I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.
Eric’s anger was always a weapon pointed at me. Every blow meant to break me. Alessio’s fury burned different. It wasn’t against me; it was for me.
He made sure I was okay. He walked me to my car. He showed me glimpses of the man I remembered from seven years ago.
When he was treating me like garbage, acting like he didn’t remember our night together, it was easy to justify keeping Austin away from him. But if he keeps showing me this softer side, if he breaks down the walls I’ve built...
I don’t know if I can keep lying to him. But more importantly, I don’t know if I’m ready to share my son.
“Your turn, Mom.”
I focus back on Austin, who’s waiting patiently for me to spin. His questions have moved on to safer territory. Why do some people like spicy food, whether fish get thirsty, if superheroes ever get tired of saving people.
Then he blindsides me again.
“Mom, who is my dad?”
My hand freezes halfway to the spinner. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I was thinking maybe if my dad was around, he could help with a baby. Then I could have a brother.”
His small voice punches the air right out of me. “I’m sorry, bud, but I’m not ready for another baby. Even if your dad was in the picture.”
His face falls. “So I’ll never meet him?”
The dejection in his voice nearly breaks me. I want to say yes, to grab him right now and drive to wherever Alessio is. Anything to bring back that bright smile.
But I still don’t know if I want Alessio in our lives that way. Not really.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “But you’ll always have me. That’s never going to change.”
“I know.” He says it with such certainty that I pull him into a hug, breathing in the scent of his apple shampoo.
“How about we go get ice cream?”
“Yeah!”
He’s racing to his room for shoes before I finish putting the game away. While he’s gone, I check my banking app to see if I can afford the treat. I’ve got tips from work, but I was hoping to save those for his medication this week.
When the app loads, I stare at the screen in disbelief. The number in my checking account is wrong. Has to be wrong. I stare at the number again, certain the app must be glitching.
But there it is. A deposit from the strip club this morning for five thousand dollars.
Five thousand.
I click through to the transaction details, confirming what I already suspected. Alessio sent me the money. This isn’t payment for two days’ work. I don’t make anywhere near that much in two nights. This is something else entirely.
My first instinct is to text him back, tell him I don’t need his charity. I might be broke, I might be stripping to cover bills, but pride is the one thing I’ve managed to hold on to.
Then Austin comes bounding back into the room, his face lit up with excitement about ice cream, and I hesitate.
If the rumors about mafia money are true, why shouldn’t Alessio contribute to his son’s ice cream and medication? Maybe I should think of this as child support.
“Let’s go,” I say, taking his small hand in mine.
We stop at the pharmacy first. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel that familiar knot of anxiety as I hand over my insurance card. The constant worry about money has been a weight on my shoulders for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe without it pressing down on me.
At the ice cream shop, I splurge and buy myself a cone, too. The place smells like sugar and waffle cones, laughter from kids spilling out of the sticky booths. It feels a world away from dark clubs and men with guns. The kind of place I wish I could keep my son in forever.
We sit at a little metal table on the patio, and I watch Austin attack his chocolate chip cookie dough with single-minded determination. The way he wrinkles his nose when the cold hits his teeth. How he uses his whole tongue to catch the drips running down the cone.
If I were sketching this moment, I’d capture the concentration on his face, the chocolate smeared on his chin. These are the details I want to remember, not the complicated mess brewing with his father.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Alessio telling me to rest and take more time off if I need it.
I’ve read somewhere that some people don’t say how they feel with words. They show care in other ways. They tell you to drive safely, bring soup when you’re sick, remember the little things that matter to you.
Maybe they also beat up men who try to hurt you. Send money so you can take time to recover without worrying about bills. Follow up with texts to make sure you’re okay.
Maybe that’s who Alessio is. Maybe he cares more than either of us wants to admit, but he shows it through actions instead of declarations.
I send back a thumbs-up emoji and slip my phone into my purse, but I can’t shake the warmth spreading through my chest.
Despite everything I tell myself about staying guarded, I feel the pull. Stronger every day. It’s more than history between us now.
And that’s the trap. The more I feel, the more impossible it becomes to imagine keeping Austin hidden forever.
I watch my son devour his cone, completely content and oblivious, and my chest aches with the weight of what’s coming.