Chapter 22 Alessio
ALESSIO
The kid looks exactly like me.
Not just a passing resemblance. He’s like looking at a photograph of myself at that age. Same amber eyes, same stubborn jawline, same dimple in his left cheek. The only thing he got from Nina is that wild dark hair.
Which means he could be mine.
The timeline’s tight, but not impossible. If Nina lied about his age by even a year, the math works. And let’s be honest, I’m hardly an expert on judging kids’ ages. Six, seven—I can’t tell the difference. They’re just pint-sized humans to me.
I stayed in her apartment until she disappeared into the bathroom, long enough to palm the sucker stick Austin left on her coffee table. His saliva is all over it, which means I can get answers instead of driving myself insane with speculation.
The Chemist owes me favors, and more importantly, he keeps his mouth shut. He usually handles drug analysis for the family, but a simple paternity test should be child’s play. Three days for results.
As I leave the lab, DNA samples safely delivered, I dial my favorite private investigator. He’s been digging up information for me for years, and he’s never once asked uncomfortable questions.
“I need a full workup on someone,” I tell him. “Nina Walker. Dig deep.”
Nina shared plenty over dinner, and under normal circumstances I’d be content learning about someone slowly. But if she’s the mother of my child? All bets are off. I need to know everything. Her secrets, her troubles, anything that could bite us in the ass later.
Because if Austin is mine, everything changes.
My mother’s been calling nonstop lately, wanting me to visit, but I’ve been busy. Between the Lightning drug investigation and running the strip club, my plate’s been especially full.
But today I actually want the distraction. Plus, she’s probably cooking, and I haven’t had a decent meal in days.
She lives in this Victorian monstrosity on the north side, all gingerbread trim and stained-glass windows.
We used to live next to Lorenzo when I was growing up.
Family sticks together, especially when you’re raising kids alone.
But five years ago, she decided she needed space and bought this place.
I still think it’s too isolated, too far from family protection, but try telling Antonia DeLuca what to do. You’ll have better luck reasoning with a brick wall.
The extra security is still here, which eases some of the tension in my shoulders as I pull up.
She's waiting on the porch when I get out of the car, wearing a red dress that makes her look regal instead of like someone’s mom.
Her grey-streaked hair is braided down her back, and she’s already smiling like she’s been looking forward to this all week.
“Finally,” she says when I climb the steps. Her hug is brief but genuine. Physical affection has never been her strong suit. Growing up with an emotionally distant father will do that to you.
Her father was a cold bastard who ran the family with ruthless efficiency, more feared than respected. He was just as hard on his kids.
Paolo, the youngest, always felt inferior to Lorenzo, who was destined to be don from birth. But my mother had it worst of all, completely overlooked because of her gender.
My grandfather had no use for daughters, and he sure as hell wasn’t the type to show love to his children.
Then there’s my grandmother, who spent most of her miserable marriage high out of her mind and couldn’t be bothered to care for her kids any more than her husband did.
Honestly, it’s a miracle my mother turned out capable of love at all.
But she did. She stuck around when my father walked out. She showed up for every school event, every scraped knee, every moment that mattered. She still wants to spend time with me even though I’m a grown man pushing forty.
She leads me inside, and the smell hits me the second I cross the threshold. Sunday gravy simmering for hours, fresh bread just out of the oven. Pure comfort, even when I don’t deserve it.
She learned to cook from the maid who basically raised her—more of a mother than the woman who gave birth to her ever was.
“Lunch in five minutes,” she says, heading for the kitchen. “Don’t even think about helping.”
I know better than to argue. Normally I’d settle into her armchair and wait, but today I’m drawn to the mantel above the brick fireplace.
Photos line the wooden surface. Most of them are ancient history, but one catches my eye. Me at seven or eight, decked out in my Little League uniform.
I lasted five games before deciding baseball was the most boring sport ever invented.
But in the photo, I’m grinning at the camera like I own the world.
Austin has that exact same smile.
My chest does something weird, like all the air just got sucked out of the room. I’ve been trying not to think about what it would mean if he’s really mine, but looking at this picture...
Fuck.
“Food’s ready,” Ma calls, saving me from my spiral.
We eat at the kitchen island like always. The dining room is reserved for holidays and currently serves as her junk mail storage facility. She pours wine, plates pasta that smells like heaven, and I try to focus on the meal instead of the kid who might be carrying my DNA.
“Amazing as always,” I tell her after the first bite.
“The recipe hasn’t changed.”
“You could share it, you know.”
She waves a crooked finger at me. “Not until you get married. I’ve told you this.”
I roll my eyes. “Never gonna happen, Ma.”
“You’ll change your mind someday. When you do, I want a good gift for my future daughter-in-law.”
The word ‘marriage’ makes my skin crawl, but I play along. “What if she’s not Italian?”
She leans forward conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but you don’t have to be Italian to make good food. A good recipe is all you need.”
Right. As if I don’t know she learned this from the maid who basically raised her. But I get it, this recipe is legacy. Family tradition. The kind of thing you pass down to your kids.
That gets me thinking about Austin again, about the magnitude of potentially having a kid. It won’t just affect me, but my whole family.
This kid would be famiglia, and that means something. It’s power and responsibility and expectations that’ll follow him his entire life. It’s a hell of a lot for any person to deal with.
“I’ve been hearing rumors,” Ma says, cutting through my thoughts. “Dario’s taking on more responsibility.”
Here we go.
“Yeah, so?”
“When he takes over for Lorenzo, that could mean big things for you. Santino won’t live forever. Dario trusts you. You could be his right hand.”
I keep eating, waiting for the sales pitch to reach its inevitable conclusion.
“That’s years away,” I say finally.
She makes a dismissive sound. “Time moves faster than you think.”
This conversation is older than my Little League career. She’s been pushing me toward more power since I made capo, and I get why. Her gender kept her locked out of the family business despite being the former don’s daughter. She wants me to grab every opportunity she never had.
“Ma, did you ever think about walking away from this life? Since you could never truly be part of it?”
She goes still, fork halfway to her mouth. For a long moment she just stares at her plate, and I start to wonder if I’ve crossed a line. Finally, she sets down her utensil and really looks at me.
“My father saw me as a bargaining chip,” she says quietly. “He was going to marry me off to some famiglia in California. Unite two organizations through my wedding ring.”
I've heard this story before, but it still pisses me off. The casual way she tells it, like it's just another fact of life, makes my jaw tighten.
“The engagement fell through, so he scrambled to find another use for me.” Her mouth twists into something bitter.
“Your father had just inherited a fortune and was looking to invest. My father needed capital for the hospitality company but didn’t want to owe money to other families.
So he decided I’d marry your father and lock in that investment permanently. ”
“Sounds like you still didn’t get much of a choice.”
“I got to choose between your father and whoever else my father lined up.” She reaches over and touches my arm, rare physical contact that makes me pay attention. “But I picked your father, and that felt like something.”
“I still don’t see how that answers my question.”
“I never wanted to leave because family is everything. Even when it’s hard, even when they disappoint you, loyalty matters. Paolo and Lorenzo are good men. I’d never walk away from that.”
“Even though Grandpa treated you like shit?”
“Especially because of that. Someone has to break the cycle.”
“So loyalty kept you here.”
“Loyalty is only worth something when it’s hard. Anyone can stick around when things are easy.”
I take another bite of pasta, mulling this over.
I think about Austin, about the possibility that I could be his father, about what kind of legacy I’d be passing down. Violence and secrets and enemies around every corner.
I think about Nina too, about why she didn't tell me. Was she protecting him from all this? From me?
“I always figured if I got married, it’d be arranged,” I admit. “Something to benefit the business.”
Her grip on my arm tightens. “I’d prefer if you found someone to love.”
The word ‘love’ sits between us like a loaded gun. I don’t know if I’m capable of that kind of vulnerability. Don’t know if I want to be.
But Nina’s face flashes in my mind anyway, uninvited and unwelcome.
“I don’t know if that’s in the cards for me, Ma.”
The look she gives me is equal parts sad and knowing, like she can see straight through my bullshit to the scared kid underneath.
Maybe she can. Maybe that’s what mothers do.
“You might surprise yourself,” she says softly.
I finish my pasta and try not to think about how right she might be.