Page 62 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
“Yes you are. Every time we fight, you do this. You kiss me into submission and think it solves everything.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing, Dante? Because from here it looks like manipulation.”
The accusation stings more than it should. “I’m trying to keep you safe. That’s all I’ve ever been trying to do.”
“By controlling every aspect of my life?”
“By protecting you from people who want you dead!”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the internal battle playing out on her face. The war between wanting her independence and knowing I’m right about the danger.
“I hate this,” she finally says. “I hate that you’re right. I hate that I can’t argue with you. I hate feeling trapped.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you seem perfectly comfortable controlling everything.”
“I’m not comfortable with any of this. But I’m doing what needs to be done.”
She shakes her head and walks away, slower this time but still leaving. Still refusing to finish the conversation.
I let her go because what else can I do? Force her to stay and listen? That’ll just prove her point about me being controlling.
I stand there in the empty hallway, hard and frustrated and utterly obsessed with a woman who refuses to bend even an inch.
And the worst part? I don’t actually want her to bend. I don’t want her to be submissive or compliant or any of the things I demand from everyone else.
I want her exactly like this. Fighting me. Challenging me. Pushing back with that fire in her eyes that makes me want to both shake her and kiss her until neither of us can think straight.
Our relationship is a constant battle of wills where neither will fully surrender. And that dynamic is intoxicating in ways I don’t fully understand.
I’ve never had to work for anything in my personal life. People either fear me or obey me or both. But Scarlett does neither. She looks at me and sees a man, not a monster. She fights with me because she’s not afraid, and that fearlessness is more attractive than anything else she could do.
I head to my office and try to focus on work, but all I can think about is the feel of her against me. The taste of her anger-laced kiss. The way she looked at me with fury and want warring in her eyes. This woman is going to drive me insane.
That evening after I’ve put Luca to bed and Scarlett has locked herself in the library to avoid me, I make a decision.
I need perspective. Need someone who can see past the violence and control to whatever might still be salvageable in me.
I drive to the small church three miles from the estate. It’s old and quiet, built in the 1800s with stained glass windows that glow softly in the darkness.
Father Benedetto has been the priest here for thirty years. He’s known me since I was a teenager, drowning in my father’s legacy and my own capacity for violence.
He’s one of the few people who’s never been afraid of me. Who sees something worth saving even when I don’t.
I find him in the rectory, reading by lamplight.
“Dante.” He looks up and smiles. “It’s been too long.”
“I know. I’ve been…”
“Busy being a father?”
I drop into the chair across from him. “How did you know?”
“Word travels. Even to old priests in quiet churches.” He sets down his book. “Tell me about him.”
