Page 17 of The Don's Secret Heir

“Even stevens.”

He’s still staring at me, his eyes not moving from my face.

“I need some air,” I say suddenly. I leave the room, hurrying down the stairs to my car to get out a bag of clothes for me and Sonny. I’m trying to drag them inside when Dario’s hand closes over mine.

“You’re still concussed. Let me do it.”

Now that he mentions it, Idohave a pounding headache and I still feel a little light-headed.

“You should lie down.”

“Lie down? After this? After you asked me tomarryyou?” My voice is pitching up almost hysterically, but Dario doesn’t seem to notice. He grabs the trashbags full of clothes and takes them upstairs, putting me in a different room than Sonny, one right next to it.

“I told you, I’ll bunk with?—”

“You won’t. You need to rest, and we’re close both close enough to hear him if he wakes up.”

“I’m not?—”

“Just humor me, okay?”

I shut my mouth and nod.

Because at the end of the day, he’s right. I’ll rest better if I’m not worried about Sonny falling off the bed. Besides, Sonny seems comfortable, wrapped up in blankets in the middle of the large guest bed.

I sigh and rifle through my bags before I find a ratty pair of sweats and a t-shirt from the local university.

Dario stiffens. “Whose clothes are those? Those aren’t women’s clothes.”

I blink up at him. “I dunno. Probably some old college boyfriend.”

I went to college, after all—for three whole semesters before I realized I couldn’t hack it, couldn’t be that far away from my father.

I’d had big dreams of becoming a journalist, but in the end, I went back home with a 2.3 GPA and my tail between my legs.

Papa hadn’t said I told you so, though, just hugged me and offered me a Bloody Mary.

My chest aches. God, I miss him.

I’m grieving the loss of my father in the only way a mob daughter can—surviving while grieving.

“Those have holes in them,” Dario argues, his jaw set tight like he’s speaking through gritted teeth.

“Don’t see you offering,” I mumble. He disappears and I let out a long breath, thinking he’s finally going to leave me to process this.

Instead, though, he comes right back in, carrying a folded pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I don’t have the heart to tell him they’ll swallow me whole, with as tall as he is. Plus, he’d argue anyway. He always was possessive.

Not that it matters anymore.

But so I don’t have to fight him, I go into the bathroom connected to my room and change into his clothes. God, they smell like him, like soap and sandalwood and all my oldest dreams.

Forgotten dreams.

Until now.

I look up at him after walking out of the bathroom. His expression changes to that of something like awe, his features shuttering closed as I look at him.

He looks away. “You always did look good in my clothes.”