Chapter 19
19
M assimo
I sit at one of the round tables close to the stage. Amara and Nico are on either side of me. She chats with him and the others at our table, including my brothers Rocco and Dante, about a detective TV show she's started watching. I enjoy the domesticity of her getting along with my brothers.
Sadly, I've mostly kept her to myself in the past weeks, but I should take her out more and have her spend time with my family. I know she married me because she had to, but it seems like she's into me now. And God, do I want her to be.
I have to double-check myself before I get too excited when she's around and say things I can't take back. Say things that would open a part of me that I've tried to keep shut for too long.
I couldn't protect my mom from harm. But I'll protect Amara until my last breath.
"Hey, man." Dante slides into the other chair next to me. "We need to talk," he says in a low voice, looking around to ensure no one else is paying attention.
"Can it wait? The show's about to start." I point at the stage, and guests take their seats as the emcee starts talking.
"I got a girl pregnant."
"Okay. How did that happen?" I ask. When Dad remarried, he made sure he didn't have more kids with his new wife. He taught us to always use protection so that we wouldn't father kids left and right at an early age. But maybe Dante went rogue.
Dante touches his collar, glancing around us. "A very slow drive-through lane. Anyway, she's eight months pregnant and called me a few minutes ago."
I square my shoulders. "You need a paternity test."
He rubs his temples. "No shit."
"Who is she?"
"Someone I saw for a few months."
"Why didn't she tell you sooner?" I squint my eyes, thinking. Anyone knows our family has excellent financial standing. As much of a liability as a mob wife can be, it also offers outstanding perks: money, protection, respect, and power.
"Andie said she wasn't going to. But then she had to pay for all these doctor's appointments. She’s due in a few weeks, and she needs help. She doesn't have any support system." He runs his fingers through his hair. "I needed to tell someone. If it's my child, I'll step up to the plate."
I squeeze his shoulder. "Don't worry yet. We'll figure it out." In my head, I ponder logistics. This woman's life won't be the same if he's the father. She'll have to live in a protected area even if they're not together romantically anymore. She'll need security whenever she sets foot out the door.
Being a father will make Dante more vulnerable to people who want him dead. And we have to make sure nothing happens to his kid.
"Thanks, man. Cazzo , I feel better. Don't tell anyone yet."
"No worries, bro." I nod at him. "Keep me posted."
The lights are off, and guests clap. Okay, good. I hear the background music, a jazzy ballad, and the emcee gestures at the performer. I hired this service several times before and requested a new burlesque performer. Hopefully, one my father hadn't seen yet. I'm sure he's seen his share of them at clubs and parties.
I'm expecting a brunette with pale skin, but a blonde woman appears on stage, wearing a long red dress and a long black hat, making it hard to see her face. A few men catcall. The light shines on my father, and more clapping ensues.
"She's so pretty," Amara says.
The woman tips her head up and winks at the audience.
A chilly shiver runs down my spine.
Daphne. Oh, great.
How did she get here? I specifically asked for a brand-new performer for this reason, and the agency gave me someone else's name. Daphne must have gone through some trouble to sneak into this party. What a bold move.
I wiped her contact information from my list after we parted ways. She texted me a few times, but I ignored it and blocked her number. I was sure she'd forget about me and move on.
But her being here proves she hasn't.
I run my hand over my face.
The act starts, the song blasting from the speakers as she works for the crowd, dancing around. She uses the swing on stage, and the guests love it. Her talent as a performer has never been a problem.
She gets off the stage and comes to my dad's table, where he sits with a bunch of guys his age. Another wave of catcalls and whistles travels around us as she removes her long gloves and gives them to my father. He's completely smitten.
He's never met Daphne—I never took her to any events. Our relationship was strictly sexual. But to have her here, with my family around, hell, with Amara around, leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
"Omg, she's so flexible," Amara says, fascinated by the show. "I bet she does Pilates."
A wave of guilt washes over me. If Amara only knew.
But she can't. I avoid eye contact with Daphne at all costs. I'll wait until this show is over and find out with the agency why Daphne ended up rubbing against my father. Right now, I want her to rub her way out of this party—with whoever she wants. Just not me.
"Oh, wow," Rocco says, and the attention of the crowd shifts closer to us, the stage light casting over our table.
Great. Daphne sits on Nico's lap, slowly removing her glove. And soon, her gaze lands on me. She looks at me like I'm the only one in the room, and annoyance creeps under my skin. She knows exactly what she's doing.
All my muscles are taut.
"He's taken, but I'm still available," Rocco says to dispel the tension.
She laughs, and once her glove is removed, she flings it in my direction. I fail to grab it and let it fall on the floor. I hope my serious stance gives her the message I want to convey. Don't fuck with me.
Finally, she slides out of my brother's lap and sashays back to the stage, where she continues the show. A few other dancers join her, performing the big number together. She ends up wearing a thin G-string and cherry-colored pasties on her breasts.
Then, a giant cake comes, and they sing Happy Birthday to my father.
"Hey, are you okay? You froze when that lady came over," Amara asks, squeezing my hand.
"I'm good. Just done with this," I say.
"A man who's bored with a burlesque routine. I'm lucky, aren't I?" She kisses my cheek.
An abundance of emotions moves through my chest. I'm pissed at Daphne for wanting to humiliate my wife in public with her little plot. Degrees of guilt threaten to suffocate me for being here, for fucking existing, and for having a past dirtier than a gas station's bathroom.
Then… another sentiment fills me. The one I've been avoiding all along.
Love.
I can't let anything happen to Amara. Can't let anyone hurt her. I'll protect her at all costs. How did I let this weakness take over me? And why does it make me feel so strong when it does the opposite—if I'm being pragmatic?
Knowing how vulnerable it makes me doesn't mean I have the power to stop it.
I've fallen for my wife and hope I won't regret it.