Page 66 of The Don's Secret Heir

I’ve got to keep my mind out of the gutter. If I don’t, I’ll... combust, or something.

It’s only been three days and I feel like I’m having withdrawals.

I guess when you don’t have sex for five years, you get pent up.

I just wish it wasn’t Dario. I wish it was anyone else.

But my body doesn’t seem to respond to anyone but him.

And surely, he doesn’t feel the same way. He hasn’t brought any girls home, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. A man can’t outrun his nature, and Dario Conte is a dog.

I huff out a breath and knock lightly on Sonny’s bedroom door before opening it.

He’s sitting up on the bed, rubbing at his eyes.

I smile at him. “Up and at 'em, kiddo?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, getting up and padding toward me in his pajamas. “Can we have pancakes?”

“I can’t see why not.”

If Sofia is already up and cooking breakfast, I’ll just request the pancakes. But when we get down to the kitchen, it’s empty.

I hum. “Pancakes are the one thing I know how to make. Wanna help me?”

Sonny’s gray eyes light up. “Yeah! That’ll be fun.”

I grab him a stepstool and take out the pancake mix and other ingredients. I let Sonny crack the egg and miraculously, he doesn’t get shell everywhere.

As we mix the batter I can’t help the memory that flutters through my mind.

“You know what Sunday mornings are, tesoro?”

I scrambled out of bed, hearing my father’s voice, and practically threw myself into his arms when he got closer.

He laughed, swinging me around and hugging me tightly before putting my feet back on the ground.

“Pancakes pancakes pancakes!” I chanted, and he nodded, smiling as he took my hand. We went down the stairs and he placed me on the kitchen countertop.

I swung my feet, like always, grinning and grabbing the sugar and flour canisters. Papa always gave me a spoonful of sugar as a“taste test,” and I opened my mouth in anticipation.

He stuck the spoon inside and I closed my eyes as the sugar bloomed on my tongue.

Sundays were always a perfect day.

I don’t realize tears are streaming down my face until Sonny frowns up at me.

“Mama, you’re sad.”

I sniffle and wipe at my face. “Only a little.”

I smile at him and wipe a bit of sugar from his cheek.

“Did you already taste test the sugar?”

But he’s not taking the hint to change the subject.

“Why are you crying?”