Chapter 25 #2
His eyes shift to me, amusement already tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t have the full crew here, but one of my guys will eat enough for at least three of my men and still have room for dessert.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and his shoulders shake with silent laughter; the bastard doesn’t even try to hide it. The tension from earlier loosens and is replaced by a familiar irritation I can actually breathe around.
Romeo snorts, dragging his hand across his mouth like he’s trying to wipe the smile off before I catch it. “I thought he preferred kittens,” he mumbles.
I turn to him so fast it’s a miracle my neck doesn’t snap, and I level him with a look that could sandblast paint. Fuckin’ kittens? What a stupid-arse thing to say.
Dante ends the call, and my focus swings back to him. “Are you calling me a pig?” I ask, running my palms down the front of my jeans like I’m smoothing down my dignity.
He barks out a laugh, stands, and buttons his suit jacket. “Not at all. But I’ve seen you eat. I know what you’re capable of.”
I scoff. “I eat as much as the next man.”
Romeo snickers, and when I turn my attention back to him, he cocks a challenging brow like he’s about to get brave again. If he accuses me of eating puppies this time, I swear to God I’m fucking uppercutting him straight into next Tuesday.
“I watched you consume an entire lasagne once, like it personally offended you,” he offers instead.
“That lasagne was offensive,” I mutter.
Dante smirks. “Offensive or not, I’m just making sure Mario brings enough so the rest of us don’t starve while you battle your demons as you inhale three family-sized pizzas.”
“I’m a growing man,” I say in my own defence.
Dante clasps my shoulder as we exit his office. “You keep growing, big fella, and I’m going to have to widen my fucking doorframes.”
This time, they all laugh, and I grunt my disapproval—loudly—mostly to drown out the fact that even I can’t help the small, traitorous smile tugging at my mouth. I like my food. Sue me.
We follow Dante as he navigates his way towards the rear of the house.
I can’t stop thinking about seeing Emily in a swimsuit for the first time.
Her bare skin, the sunlight on her curves, the way the water might cling to her, tracing the lines of her body in a way my hands want to.
The anticipation makes it impossible to focus on anything else.
I clench and unclench my hands at my sides as Dante slides open the door and steps onto the back deck. I follow right behind him while Romeo rounds us both and heads down the stairs towards the pool. Lucia shifts to the edge of the water with baby Gabriel in her arms.
Romeo grabs a towel off the sunbed and goes straight to them. He bends and lifts his small son out of the water, briskly wraps him up in the towel and cradles him tightly against his chest.
He’s a good dad, and so is Dante. Their kids are lucky to have two loving parents. Lil’ Peach has me, but there’s a part, buried fucking deep, that still wants to give her that real family one day. A mother and a father figure.
Lucia moves for the steps, and when he gets an eyeful of the tiny bikini she’s wearing, he quickly grabs another towel and shoves it in her direction. He’s a possessive bastard, but I can’t blame him.
Dante moves across the deck and stops at the railing while my eyes sweep the pool for my girls.
Peach is in Emily’s arms, both of them wearing hats.
But instead of the skimpy bikini I was hoping to see Emily in, she’s wearing a fucking rashie.
Her skin is pale, not naturally olive like the rest of us Italian descendants, so it’s a sensible choice, but I can’t help feeling disappointed.
“I’ve ordered lunch, Bellezza (Beauty),” Dante says to his wife.
“We were going to come in soon and cook something.”
“No need.”
“What did you order?” she asks.
“Pizza from Mario’s.”
“Yay, pee-za,” Lil’ Peach screams, throwing her hands in the air.
Dante chuckles, and so do I. “Your kid has your appetite,” he jokes.
“She’s technically not my kid,” I correct him.
His eyebrows pinch together as his gaze moves to me.
“She’s yours in every sense of the word, don’t ever doubt that.
In my eyes, fatherhood is measured by devotion, and you’ve given that little girl everything a father should.
Time, care, guidance, and more love than most people could ever manage.
Blood doesn’t make you a parent, Dom, your heart does, and it takes a special kind of person to raise a kid that’s not theirs. ”
His words have something squeezing in my chest. I can’t even bring myself to imagine what Peach’s life would’ve been like if my sister had been allowed to take her home from the hospital that day.
It’s been over three years, and Peach still hasn’t met her parents.
Occasionally, Violet will pass one of the drug tests, and my hopes start to lift, but then she fails the next few.
And as much as I still love her, there’s a point where you have to admit the drugs have won.
She can’t be helped if she refuses to realise she has a problem.
I’d pay for the best rehab if she’d take it.
Mary told me a few days ago that Violet is currently out on bail for throwing an old lady to the ground, stealing her handbag, and kicking her in the ribs before walking off like it was nothing.
I don’t even recognise my sister anymore. I try to imagine Peach growing up in that kind of chaos, and it makes my stomach turn. Some kids get a head start in life, but Peach unfortunately ended up with a fucking train wreck for parents.
My sister is set to return to court in a month’s time. I’m betting she won’t show. As much as I don’t like the thought of her being incarcerated, prison may be the only thing that could clean her up.
Emily moves towards the stairs, placing Peach down and holding her hand while she climbs out. She looks so cute in her pink frilly one-piece. Little floaties hug each of her arms, making them stick out at the sides like tiny wings as she toddles over to get a towel.
When Emily exits the pool, and I get a look at the bottom half of her—specifically the tiny, black bikini bottoms she’s wearing—I almost swallow my tongue. There’s a sliver of her abdomen on show, and I stifle a groan as my eyes peruse down her long, lean legs. They go on for fucking days.
I’m forced to push thoughts of them wrapped around my waist from my mind before I give myself away. This woman undoes me without even trying.
“Fuck, who’s the blonde?” Lorenzo murmurs. “Look at that tight arse.”
My head snaps towards him, and before I even realise it, I’m moving. “Why are you looking at her?” I growl, my voice eerily calm as I tower over him.
He blinks at me, confused by the shift. “What? I’m just saying—”
“Well, don’t.” When his gaze drifts back to Emily, a cold edge cuts through me. “Why the fuck are you still looking at her?”
He swallows hard and shrinks back. “Oh shit,” he mumbles. “Does she belong to you?”
“She may not know it yet,” Dante cuts in as he steps forward, his voice carrying that quiet warning only an idiot would ignore. “But he’s claimed her, and if you looked at my woman like that, I’d gut you where you stand.”
“Lucky for me, she’s not his wife, then.”
A low growl rumbles in my throat, making Dante reach out and place a hand on my arm. “Not yet,” he replies.
My eyes flicker to him in surprise. Does he really think Emily could one day be my wife? The idea is absurd, but I can’t say I entirely hate it. “Don’t fucking look at her,” I warn Lorenzo.
“If you know what’s good for you—” Dante continues, giving him a hard stare, “—you’ll head back inside before this gets messy. I’ve only just had the deck refinished, so I won’t be impressed if it’s stained with your blood.”