30. Leo
30
Leo
T he penthouse feels quiet.
Sabrina is out. Lunch with Tatiana Rossi. A ‘strategy meeting’ she called it, but I know it’s mostly just two friends needing to download.
Fine by me. It gives me… this.
Quiet.
Time to think.
Time alone with my daughter.
My daughter.
Still feels fucking strange saying it, thinking it even. But less terrifying than it did a week ago.
Now it just feels… solid.
Like an anchor in the usual swirling bullshit of my life.
Mia’s in the nursery, napping. Miraculously, she went to sleep easy today. Maybe she senses the temporary absence of her primary caregiver. Or maybe she just trusts me now not to completely fuck up the basic operations of keeping her alive for a few hours.
That trust… it’s a heavy fucking weight .
Sabrina having enough faith in me to leave Mia here, alone with me, while she goes out… that’s huge. Considering the terrified woman who wouldn’t even let me hold Mia unsupervised only a short time ago.
We’ve come… somewhere.
Not sure where exactly, but somewhere different.
Last night… fuck .
After Mia finally conked out, we ended up back in my bed. Yes, my bed this time, not the sofa, not the window. Skin on skin, tangled sheets, the city lights painting patterns on her bare back. It was… different again. Slower. Deeper. More… connection. Felt like I could finally breathe again after holding my breath for twenty fucking months.
But this morning?
I woke up alone.
Sometime before dawn, she’d slipped out, retreated back to the sterile safety of the guest suite down the hall. Left me staring at the empty space beside me, feeling… what? Rejected? No, not exactly. Conflicted.
Like she’s letting me in, bit by bit, letting me see the vulnerability, letting me touch her, literally and figuratively, but only so far.
Then the walls go back up.
Can’t blame her. My track record speaks for itself. And maybe I’m doing the same thing? Letting her see glimpses of the guy underneath the asshole reputation, the guy holding our daughter, the guy trying to figure his shit out… but keeping the core protected?
Still running the old plays out of habit?
Yeah, probably.
This whole relationship, co-parenting, business arrangement thing… it’s uncharted territory. There’s no playbook on this. No fucking hint as to what the next move is.
When I was a kid, you used to be able to buy these little things called hint books that would show you how to solve video games. You’d just slide a magic marker over the page and it would tell you outright how to defeat the evil dragon that was guarding the treasure. Some designers even went all-out and purposely designed their games to make them super hard so you’d have to buy the fucking book to finish the game.
But in this case, there’s no magic marker. No obvious solution. Hell, there isn’t even a page.
I glance at the cane resting against my desk. I haven’t needed it as much the last couple of days. Or even weeks, for that matter. Stephen’s torture sessions are actually finally paying off.
The pain is still there, sure, a dull throb instead of a sharp scream, but it’s manageable. Healing.
Time heals all wounds.
Physical ones, anyway. Emotional ones?
Jury’s still out on that fucking verdict.
Maybe Mia… Sabrina… maybe they’re part of that healing too?
A different kind of physical therapy?
Jesus, Leo, listen to yourself. Getting fucking sentimental.
Or worse. Because my cock just got hard again, thinking about last night’s fucking physical therapy session with Sabrina...
I shake my head, focusing back on the Bloomberg terminal. Need to work. Distract myself.
But my eyes keep drifting to the baby monitor, waiting for the first sign of movement. Surprisingly, I’m not dreading it, because if she wakes up I know I can handle it now. I can change her, feed her that mushy orange crap she likes, maybe even attempt another block tower.
And you know what? All of it is weirdly… satisfying. Because it’s something concrete. Something that doesn’t involve calculating risk/reward ratios or navigating Luca’s increasingly erratic bullshit.
Speaking of Luca… I need to deal with him sometime. I’ve been pushing it off. But eventually, we’re going to have to butt heads. And it won’t be pretty. Partnership doesn’t mean free rein to be a fucking prick or snort coke at all hours of the day. Especially not now, not when I have Mia and Sabrina to protect.
Yes, a long conversation with him is overdue.
A potentially explosive one.
Another fucking thing to handle.
But I know I’m just going to put it off. When it comes to Luca, I always do.
Still... mark my words, one of these days, he’s going to go too far, and I’m going to explode on the fucker.
My private line rings, startling me out of my thoughts. Restricted number.
Could be anyone.
A reporter who somehow got the number? An investor?
I answer cautiously. “Maxwell.”
“Leonardo?” The voice is hesitant, female, and achingly familiar. A voice I haven’t heard in… years.
My blood runs cold. Every muscle tenses. “Mother?”
What the fuck ? How did she even get this number?
God damn it. Yet another fucking thing to handle .
“Yes, honey, it’s me,” she says, her voice thin, reedy, laced with the faux brightness I remember from childhood. You know, the kind that always preceded bad news or drunken apologies. “I… I saw the news. The pictures online. Of you… and the little girl.”
Of course.
Fucking tabloids.
They reach all the way back to Boston, apparently. Dredging up ancient history along the way.
“I see,” I reply.
“It’s true then?” she presses, her voice trembling slightly. “You have a… daughter?”
“Yes,” I bite out, the word clipped. Every defense mechanism slams into place. The hurt little boy hiding behind the billionaire wall. “I do.”
“Oh, Leonardo,” she breathes, and I can practically hear the manufactured tears welling up. “A granddaughter! I have a granddaughter! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Why didn’t I tell you?
The question is so fucking absurd, so monumentally clueless, that a harsh laugh escapes me. “Seriously? You’re asking me that? After… everything?”
The unspoken history hangs heavy between us... the neglect, the chaos, the years of silence broken only by the occasional, obligatory holiday calls managed by Michelle.
“This is different!” she insists, desperation creeping into her voice. “This is family! My grandchild! I need to see her, Leo. I want to be part of her life. Please.”
The plea digs under my skin, reopening old wounds I thought were long since cauterized. Her , wanting to be part of Mia’s life? The woman who was barely present in mine? Who chose my father’s addiction over her own son time and time again? The hypocrisy is fucking staggering.
“No,” I say flatly. The rejection is instinctive. Protect Mia. Protect myself. Keep the poison out. “That’s not happening.”
“Leo, please! Don’t shut me out again! This is my chance… our chance… to fix things!”
“There’s nothing to fix,” I lie coldly. “My life is fine. Mia’s life will be fine. Without…”
Without you.
“You can’t do that!” Her voice rises, cracking with emotion. Real or manufactured, I can’t fucking tell. “She deserves to know her grandmother!”
“She deserves stability,” I counter, my voice hard as granite. “Something you know fuck-all about providing.”
The silence on the other end is heavy. Wounded.
Good.
Let her feel it for a change.
Still, I feel a twinge of guilt.
You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that.
I sigh. “I’m sorry mom. I didn’t mean to word it like that.”
“No,” she says. “It’s fine. I understand. You... you don’t want me in your life. But please... just… just think about it, Leonardo.” Her voice sounds choked. “For her sake.”
The line clicks dead.
I stare at the phone, my hand clenched into a fist, my knuckles white. My heart is pounding, not with excitement, but with old familiar rage. Not to mention a grief so deep it feels like part of my bone marrow .
Fuck her.
Showing up now, after all these years, trying to play the doting grandmother? After the wreckage she presided over?
Not a fucking chance.
Mia deserves better.
Still, she is my mother.
My intercom buzzes. Michelle’s voice, crisp and professional. “Mr. Maxwell? Dominic Rossi on line one for you. Shall I put him through?”
Dom. Right on fucking cue. Maybe he has a sixth sense for when I’m about to implode.
“Yeah, put him through.” If I turn him down, he’ll just call my personal cell anyway.
I take a deep breath, trying to shove the toxic sludge of my mother’s call back into its box.
“Dom,” I answer, trying for normalcy.
“Leo. Heard about the Accel Partners meeting. Sounds like Sabrina worked some magic.”
“Yeah,” I concede. “She’s good. Balinski’s willing to talk next week, anyway. We’ll just have to see.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” He pauses. “So… how’s everything else? Adjusting to having… houseguests?” His tone is carefully neutral, but I hear the underlying question.
“It’s…” I search for the right word. “…a change.” I hesitate, then the next words just spill out. “My mother called.”
“Your mother? ” Dom sounds surprised. “I thought you guys didn’t really…”
“We don’t,” I confirm grimly. “She saw the tabloid photos. Wants to meet Mia. Play grandmother of the fucking year.”
“Ah,” Dom says softly. Understanding dawns in his voice. He knows some of the history. Not all of it, nobody knows all of it. But enough. “And you told her…?”
“No, basically,” I rub my temples. I’m starting to develop a killer headache.
Dom sighs. “I get it, Leo. Believe me, dealing with complicated family shit… it’s the fucking worst thing out there. But… think about Mia.”
“I am thinking about Mia!” I snap. “Keeping her away from my mother’s mess is thinking about her!”
“Is it?” Dom asks quietly. “Or is it about protecting yourself from your own pain? Look, your mother… maybe she screwed up. Badly. But people can change. And Mia does deserve family, if it’s offered genuinely. Shutting the door completely, repeating the cycle of estrangement… is that really what’s best for her in the long run? Or is it just easier for you?”
He’s not completely wrong.
Easier for you.
Is that what this is? Just me avoiding the painful task of confronting my past?
Using Mia as a shield?
Fuck.
“I don’t know, Dom,” I say finally, the anger draining out of me. “I honestly don’t fucking know anymore. Can I really trust her around Mia? Around us?”
“Maybe you don’t have to trust her completely right away,” Dom advises.“Arrange a meeting first, in a controlled setting. With you and Sabrina both there with Mia. See how she acts. Gauge her sincerity when she’s actually face-to-face with her granddaughter.Thendecide about future access. But don’t shut down the possibility entirely, based only on old wounds. ”
Meet her. With Mia and Sabrina. The thought makes my stomach clench again. Confronting my mother without the buffer of distance or Michelle running interference?
It feels like walking willingly into negotiations involving a known toxic asset that should have been written off years ago.
“Maybe,” I mutter noncommittally. “I’ll think about it.”
We talk for a few more minutes about business, about Tatiana and his own kid, the usual bullshit. But my mind is elsewhere. Stuck between the ghost of my mother’s failures and the bewildering realities of my own daughter sleeping peacefully down the hall.
I check my watch. Sabrina will be returning soon. I’ll happily inform her that Mia literally slept through her absence like a baby.
That night, after we eat another meal prepared by Rafael that I barely taste, I find myself standing in the nursery doorway.
Sabrina is sitting in the rocking chair, reading Mia a bedtime story. Something about a runaway bunny. Mia is rapt, her green eyes focused on the colorful pictures rather than the words. Sabrina’s voice meanwhile is soft, melodic, and completely different from the sharp, professional tone she uses on client calls.
Sabrina looks… peaceful. Content.
Like this is exactly where she’s supposed to be.
It’s a simple scene. The father watches the mother read to child. Domestic. Normal.
Except nothing about this is normal. Not the multi-million dollar penthouse setting. Not the tabloid storm raging outside. Not the fractured history and uncertain future connecting the three of us.
Mia yawns, a huge, jaw-cracking baby yawn.
Sabrina merely smiles and closes the book.
“Okay, sleepyhead,” she murmurs, lifting Mia into the crib. She tucks the blanket around her and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. “Sweet dreams.”
Sabrina straightens up, turning towards me, her expression unguarded for a moment.
“She really likes that bunny book,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I whisper back, stepping into the room without my cane. “Seems like it.”
We stand there for a moment, side-by-side, looking down at our sleeping daughter. The silence stretches, comfortable this time. Filled with the soft sound of Mia’s breathing.
Breaking generational patterns. That’s what Dom implied I should consider. Not shutting doors. Not repeating the cycle of estrangement.
My mother… maybe she deserves a chance? Not for my sake. Fuck no. But for Mia’s? Does Mia deserve a grandmother, even a flawed, complicated one?
The thought feels dangerous. Vulnerable. Like cracking open a door I’ve kept bolted shut for decades.
Well, technically, the kid’s already got one grandmother... Sabrina’s mom. The Spanish Inquisition over the speakerphone. Still, maybe... maybe more family isn’t automatically a bad thing? Even this fucking family?
Shit if I know.
I don’t tell Sabrina about my mother’s call. Not yet. It’s too raw. Too complicated. One battle at a time. Right now, just being here, in this quiet room, sharing this moment with her and Mia… it feels like enough.
More than enough.
Who knows, maybe I’ll figure out this fatherhood thing yet.
And this… us thing.
Yes. Who knows?