Page 48 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
“Yeah, right,” I snap.
“And you should know that that son of mine has more conscience than his mother,” he continues, clearly trying to trigger me further.
“He said it wasn’t fair that I missed everything.” Dante’s grey eyes bore into mine. “He’s right, and I’m wondering if he knows his mother is the culprit.”
“Don’t you dare!” I snarl.
“Or what? Because every time we talk about it, you defend your choice. You act like keeping my son from me was justified.”
“It was justified. You’re a killer, Dante. You torture people. You execute them in cold blood. What part of that screams ‘good father material’?”
“The part where I would die for him.” His voice drops lower. “The part where I would burn this entire city to the ground if it meant keeping him safe. The part where I’m trying every day to be better than what I am because he’s watching.”
The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard again.
“I need space,” I say, trying to step around him.
His hand moves fast and catches my wrist. Not painful, but firm enough to stop me.
“You don’t get to walk away every time this conversation gets uncomfortable.”
“Watch me.”
I try to pull free, but his grip tightens and suddenly I’m being spun around and pressed back against the bookshelf. His body cages me in, one hand still holding my wrist, the other placed against the shelf beside my head.
We’re inches apart. So close I can stare deep into his eyes.
“You don’t walk away from me,” he says, and his voice has gone rough and dangerous.
“Let go.”
“No.”
“Dante—”
“Every time we argue, you run. You walk away before we can actually resolve anything. I’m done with that.”
“And I’m done being treated like property you can command whenever you feel like it.”
“Is that what you think this is? Me treating you like property?”
“What else would you call it? You control where I go, who I talk to, what I do with my son. You make every decision and expect me to just obey.”
“I’m keeping you alive.”
“You’re suffocating me!”
The words come out louder than I intended and for a second we just stare at each other, both breathing hard and harsh.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth and everything shifts. The anger is still there, but underneath it is something else. Something that’s been building between us since I arrived.
“Let go of me,” I say again, but my voice has lost its power.
“Make me.”
It’s a dare. And we both know I’m not going to take it.
Because as much as I want to deny it, as much as I hate myself for it, part of me doesn’t want him to let go. Part of me wants to see what happens if this tension finally snaps. But I’m not giving him that satisfaction.
