Page 33 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
Dante Moretti stands next to a black SUV with two men in suits flanking him, and every cell in my body screams at me to run.
He looks different than I remember. Older. Harder. The six years have carved away anything soft and left behind something dangerous and sharp. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that probably costs more than I make in six months, and he wears it like armor.
But his eyes are exactly the same.
Storm-grey and intense and locked on me like I’m the only thing in the world that exists.
The attraction hits me immediately and I hate it. Hate that my body remembers him. Hate that even terrified and desperate, I can still feel the pull between us.
I force myself to walk toward him even though Luca’s hand tightens in mine.
“Mama,” he whispers, pressing against my leg. “That man looks really serious.”
“He’s just…that’s how he always looks. It’s okay.”
We stop a few feet away and I meet Dante’s eyes. Try to read his expression. Try to see any hint of the man who let me go six years ago.
His face gives nothing away.
“Scarlett.” His voice is exactly as I remember. Rough and gravelly, saying my name like something he hasn’t allowed himself to say in a long time.
“Dante.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for sending the plane. The flight was?—”
But he’s not looking at me anymore.
His gaze drops to Luca and everything stops.
I watch his eyes widen fractionally. Watch him take in every detail of Luca’s face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Watch recognition dawn even though he’s never seen this child before in his life.
Because Luca looks exactly like him.
The same dark hair. The same bone structure that will sharpen as he grows. And especially the eyes.
Storm-grey eyes identical to his father’s stare up at Dante with a mix of nervousness and curiosity.
Oh god.
Dante crouches down slowly until he’s eye level with Luca, and I want to grab my son and run. Want to put myself between them. Want to do anything except stand here and watch this happen.
“Hi there.” His voice is softer when he speaks to Luca. Gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “What’s your name?”
Luca looks up at me and I nod even though every instinct screams at me to lie.
“Luca,” my son says quietly. “Luca Miller.”
“Luca.” Dante repeats it like he’s memorizing it. Testing how it feels in his mouth. “That’s a good name. How old are you, Luca?”
“Five and a half.”
I see Dante’s jaw tighten slightly. The math is impossible to ignore.
“Five and a half,” he says softly. “That’s a good age.”
Encouraged, Luca puffs his chest. “Mana said I’ll be six soon.”
“That’s right,” Dante concurs.
Luca tilts his head, studying Dante with that fearless curiosity only five-year-olds have. Then his eyes widen. “You have the same eyes as me! Look, Mama! We have matching eyes!”
