23. VALENTINO
23
VALENTINO
The engine growls beneath me as I slam the accelerator, my Porsche tearing through the empty roads like a bullet.
The city lights blur past in streaks of white and red, my grip tightening around the wheel as the words that have wrecked my world keep replaying in my mind.
Vincent is your son.
A sharp, ragged breath escapes me, but it does nothing to ease the pressure in my chest.
I’m a father. Vincent is my son. My son.
Layla knew. She kept it from me.
Two years. Two fucking years.
I missed his first steps. His first words. His first everything. I missed holding him as a baby, rocking him to sleep, watching him grow.
Because she decided I didn’t have the right to know.
My jaw clenches so tight my teeth ache.
Betrayal. Anger. Pain. It all swirls together, a relentless storm surging inside me, twisting my insides into something dark and unrecognizable.
I want to be furious. I want to scream. I want to put my fist through something, anything.
But then I think of him.
I see his face, small and innocent, staring up at me with those familiar dark eyes.
His laugh. His bright smile. The way he clung to me when I carried him. The way he trusted me.
Even when I didn’t know the truth, I felt it.
I knew. Somewhere deep inside, I always knew.
My breath shudders as I drag a hand through my hair, my foot pressing harder on the gas pedal, the car’s engine roaring in protest.
I need to stop thinking. I need to stop feeling.
Because if I let it all sink in, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do.
The light ahead shifts from yellow to red, but I don’t slow down.
I barely register it.
A blaring horn.
Bright headlights.
A truck speeding through the intersection.
For a split second, time slows down.
I fucked up.
I fucked up bad.
I slam the brakes, yanking the wheel to the side.
The tires scream against the pavement as the car skids, narrowly avoiding the massive eighteen-wheeler barreling past.
The driver’s horn blasts through the night, angry, warning.
The world snaps back into motion as the car jerks to a violent stop against the shoulder.
My hands tremble against the wheel, my chest rising and falling erratically.
Silence.
Only my ragged breaths fill the space.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
What the fuck am I doing?
I almost died just now. Because I was angry? Because I let my emotions control me?
There is a boy in the hospital who needs me.
A son who needs me. My son.
Vincent.
I grip the wheel, inhaling sharply.
My head drops forward, hands tightening until my knuckles turn white.
Nothing else matters right now. Not my company. Not my reputation. Not even my relationship with Layla.
Vincent comes first.
I exhale slowly, forcing the chaos in my mind into submission.
The anger, the betrayal, the resentment, I shove it down, lock it away.
He is all that matters.
I turn the Porsche back onto the road, my movements calmer now, more controlled.
I need to be there.
And this time, I drive like a man who understands exactly what’s at stake.
***
When I walk back into the hospital, I expect Layla to look relieved that I’ve returned.
Instead, when she spots me from across the waiting room, her expression is unreadable, like she’s waiting for something inevitable to happen.
Like she’s bracing for impact.
I don’t speak to her. I can’t.
Not yet.
Not until I figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say to her.
We exist in this strange limbo, standing near each other, but not truly acknowledging one another.
The tension between us is suffocating, thick with everything left unsaid.
She’s gripping a cup of coffee in both hands, but I can tell she isn’t drinking it.
She hasn’t looked at me since I stepped in.
And I haven’t looked at her either.
Because I don’t know what I’ll find when I do.
The thought of yelling at her, demanding to know why she took my son from me, demanding to know how she could do this, crosses my mind a thousand times.
But then I remind myself, Vincent comes first.
So, I do nothing.
I say nothing.
And I wait.
***
Three Days Later
Vincent’s diagnosis is confirmed. It’s aplastic anemia.
I’ve been checking in with the vineyard periodically.
According to Micah, everything seems to still be in order, except for Eva. She’s been back and forth demanding to speak to me, but I’ve told them I’ll deal with her when I return.
Layla and I barely talk. We move around each other like ghosts, coexisting but never connecting.
I can tell she wants to talk.
And she can probably tell that I can’t.
I still haven’t figured out what to say to her.
I don’t know where we stand anymore. I don’t know if I want to know.
All I know is that our son is fighting for his life.
And that’s the only thing that matters.
Layla is at Vincent’s bedside, holding his hand as he sleeps in his hospital bed.
I sit across from them, my foot tapping restlessly against the tile floor, my hands clasped together.
Every now and then, I steal glances at her.
She looks exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes make her look even smaller, her skin pale, her frame stiff. She keeps fidgeting with the ring on her finger, the engagement ring I put there only days ago.
But now it feels like a joke.
A cruel, twisted joke.
It was never real. It was never supposed to be real.
But Vincent is.
Vincent is so damn real that it makes my chest ache.
I want to be mad at her. Hell, I am mad at her. How could she have kept this from me? How could she have let me believe that he was someone else’s child? That I was just some stranger in his life?
But at the same time… I see her.
I see the way she tries her best to hold back her tears, the way her hands shake as she holds our son, the way she presses her fingers into her temples like she’s trying to hold herself together.
She’s hurting too.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
I should be demanding answers. But instead, all I want is to hold her.
To pull her into my arms, feel her warmth, run my hands through her hair, and tell her that it’s going to be okay.
Even though I have no fucking clue if it will be.
“Do you want coffee?” Layla’s voice is so quiet that I almost don’t hear her.
I look up at her, surprised that she even spoke.
Her fingers are gripping the empty cup in her lap, her knuckles pale from the pressure. She won’t look at me.
I hesitate.
Do I want coffee? Not really. But I do want to keep her talking.
“Sure.” My voice is rough, edged with exhaustion.
She nods, standing up slowly. Her movements are mechanical, like she’s running on autopilot. Like she’s too afraid to feel anything.
I watch as she walks toward the cafeteria, disappearing down the hallway.
And suddenly, I can breathe again.
The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room.
Vincent is asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. His face is pale, far too pale, and his little fingers curl weakly around the stuffed elephant he refuses to sleep without.
I sit beside him, reaching out, brushing the soft curls from his forehead, my fingers ghosting over his warm skin.
His fever has gone down, but it’s not enough. Not when his body is fighting against itself.
Not when we still don’t have a match.
A lump rises in my throat as I tighten my grip on the side of the bed, as if holding on to it will somehow stop everything from slipping through my fingers.
I lean down, pressing a kiss to Vincent’s forehead.
He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.
“Daddy’s here, baby,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I’m right here.”
I can’t cry. I can’t break. Not when he needs me to be strong.
But I feel the tears falling anyway.
Layla comes back fifteen minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee.
She places mine on the table next to me without a word before sitting back in her chair beside Vincent.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
She doesn’t respond. Just nods slightly, blowing at the steam rising from her cup.
I study her.
The way her hands tremble slightly. The way she won’t meet my gaze.
She’s scared.
Not just for Vincent. But of me.
Scared of what I think of her. Scared of what I feel for her.
I hate that. I hate that she thinks I would hate her.
Because no matter how much she hurt me… I don’t.
I don’t think I ever could.
***
Hours pass.
Doctors come in and out of Vincent’s room. Family members drop by. But nothing really changes.
Layla and I sit across from each other with Vincent asleep in his bed, between us. We remain in this limbo, trapped between what we were and what we are now.
She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, adjusting the blanket she pulled over herself earlier.
I watch as she pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging herself.
I wonder if she knows how small she looks right now.
Like she’s trying to disappear. Like she’s afraid of what’s going to happen next. Like she’s afraid of me.
That’s what finally pushes me to speak.
“Layla.”
She stiffens at the sound of her name. Slowly, she turns to look at me.
Her eyes are red, rimmed with exhaustion and unshed tears.
I part my lips to say something, anything, but the words don’t come. Because I don’t even know where to begin.
Do I ask why she kept him from me? Do I tell her how much that hurt? Do I tell her that, despite it all, I still want to touch her, hold her, comfort her? Do I tell her that I still…
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face.
She watches me, waiting.
For what? For me to explode? For me to demand answers? For me to tell her I hate her?
She looks away first.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers.
I frown. “What doesn’t?”
“This.” She gestures between us, the space that feels so much wider than just a few feet.
The words hit me harder than I expect.
She thinks we’re over. That there’s no fixing this. That there’s no us left to fight for.
I don’t know if she’s right.
But I don’t want to find out.
After she falls asleep, I step out of Vincent’s hospital room, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. The air in the hallway feels thick, suffocating, like it’s carrying the heaviness of every thought racing through my mind.
I walk faster, needing space, needing air, needing something, anything , that will keep me from drowning in frustration.
But just as I round the corner, a voice stops me in my tracks.
“Valentino?”
I turn and find Layla’s best friend, Giana, standing a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me carefully.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Just… need some air.”
Giana studies me for a moment before nodding. “Come have coffee with me.”
I hesitate.
I don’t know her well. We’ve barely had more than a few surface-level conversations, and right now, the last thing I need is to sit across from someone who might try to analyze me.
But there’s something in her tone, steady, unyielding, that makes it clear she’s not just offering coffee. She’s offering clarity.
I follow her to the cafeteria, and she doesn’t waste any time ordering.
A few minutes later, she hands me a steaming cup of coffee. I notice she doesn’t get one for herself.
“Thought you could use this.” She sets the cup in front of me.
I nod in thanks, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
We sit in silence at first, and for a moment, I wonder if maybe this was a mistake.
Then, she leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You don’t get it, do you?”
I look up at her, frowning. “What?”
“Layla.” Her voice is firmer now, tinged with something that feels almost like frustration. “You don’t understand why she did what she did. Why she kept Vincent from you. Why she pushes people away before they can ever get close enough to hurt her.”
I exhale sharply, staring down at my coffee. “I know she’s had it rough. But that doesn’t change the fact that she—”
“She what?” Giana’s voice rises slightly. “That she made a mistake? That she chose to survive the only way she knew how?”
She shakes her head, and for the first time, I see the depth of emotion behind her eyes.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be Layla, Valentino. To spend your entire life never knowing who your father is. To grow up feeling like there’s always a missing piece but never having the answers. Every day she’s running on nothing but sheer will, trying to keep her shop alive, trying to be a mother, trying to be enough for everyone, while knowing that at any moment, it could all be taken away.”
I feel something shift inside me, something heavy settling deep in my chest.
“She wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Giana continues, her voice quieter now but no less powerful. “She was protecting herself. Protecting Vincent. Protecting the only life she’s ever known. Because for Layla, trusting someone, letting someone in, has never been easy. And after everything she’s been through, can you really blame her? ”
I swallow hard, the words cutting through me like a blade.
“Valentino, she was surviving. That’s all she was doing. And then you came back, and suddenly, everything changed. You flipped her world upside down, and now she’s trying to figure out where she stands. You have to make her feel safe again. That’s what she needs right now.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
I don’t know what to say.
Because she’s right.
Layla was surviving.
She had no safety net, no guarantees, no promises of forever. Just a business she built from nothing, a son who depended on her, and a world that had never been particularly kind to her.
But she also deprived me of getting to see my son grow up for the first two years of his life. And that fucking hurts.
Was she ever going to tell me?
It doesn’t matter. Not now. What matters now is Vincent.
I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
Giana offers a small, sad smile. “I know she hurt you, and I know she was trying to find a way to tell you, but you need to let her explain. For Vincent. For yourself, if you won’t do it for her.”
I finish the rest of my coffee in silence, mulling over everything she’s said.
***
On the fourth day, I leave the hospital to shower and change.
The moment I step inside my apartment building, Dante scans me like I’m a ticking time bomb.
He isn’t wrong.
"You look like you need a drink." He hands me a water bottle instead as we take the elevator up to my place.
I down it in one go before going inside and collapsing onto the couch, rubbing a hand over my face.
There’s no point in withholding the truth any longer.
“Vincent is my son.”
“What the fuck, man? Why didn’t you tell me?"
"I didn’t know. She just told me when he got sick."
"Damn." He hesitates before speaking again. "Do you… believe her?"
My entire body goes rigid.
"Vincent is my son." My voice is firm, unshakable. "That’s not up for debate."
Dante raises his hands. “Alright, alright. Just asking.”
I don’t say anything else. Because the conversation is over.
There’s a knock on the door. I open to find my father standing on the other end.
I look at Dante, who quickly gets the hint that he needs to make himself scarce. “I’ll leave you guys to it.”
Dad takes a seat on the couch with his hands clasped in front of him, his expression unreadable as I approach.
He knows.
I swallow hard.
I lean against the wall beside him, running a tired hand through my hair. “You heard, didn’t you?”
He nods, his gaze steady. “I did.”
Silence stretches between us for a moment, then he exhales. “Valentino… how did you not know?”
The disappointment in his voice is subtle, but it cuts.
I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “Layla ran away from me and disappeared for three years. I just found her again recently. She never told me.”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “And how do you feel about it?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “How do I feel? I feel like someone just ripped the rug out from under me. Like I’ve been blindfolded for two years and now I’m suddenly seeing everything for the first time.”
My jaw tightens. “I feel like I’ve failed him before I even had the chance to be his father.”
My father is silent for a moment, then stands to reach out, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “You haven’t failed him. Not yet. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
I shake my head. “Is it? He doesn’t even know me. I missed his first words, his first steps. I wasn’t there when he got sick, when he needed me the most.”
My father squeezes my shoulder. “And what? You’re going to let that stop you now?”
His gaze softens. “Listen to me, Valentino. You can’t change the past. But you can choose what kind of father you want to be from this moment forward.”
I inhale deeply, his words sinking in. “I have to do what’s right for him.”
Dad nods. “Yes. And right now, that means focusing on finding a match.”
I straighten, clenching my fists.
Right. That’s the priority. Vincent.
Everything else, my anger, my relationship with Layla, my confusion about where we stand, that can wait.
I take a deep breath, nodding once. “I won’t let him down.”
Dad gives me one last pat on the shoulder before turning to leave. “I know you won’t.”
As I get ready to head back to the hospital, I realize something.
For the first time since Layla told me the truth, I finally feel clear-headed.
I know what I need to do.
I need to be there for my family.
***
Back at the hospital, Layla and her mother are with Vincent.
Doctor Holloway walks into Vincent’s room with a file. Layla and I both stand at the same time.
We already know what this is.
The test results.
I feel her beside me, trembling.
Without thinking, I reach for her hand. And she lets me.
I squeeze her fingers.
She squeezes back.
It’s the first real thing we’ve done in days.
Then the doctor speaks, "I’m sorry. None of the tested donors are a match."
Layla gasps, her grip on my hand tightening.
The doctor keeps talking, but I barely hear him.
Layla’s sobbing now, her body shaking.
Then Bella steps forward.
"Doctor, there is one person we haven’t tested yet."
The room goes silent.
The doctor frowns. “Who?”
Bella doesn’t hesitate. "Layla’s father. Silvano Salvatore."
And just like that, our tension, our pain, our unresolved emotions, don’t even matter anymore.
Because now, we have a bigger problem.