Brunetti's Secret Son

Reining in his libido and burying the recollection of how those breasts had felt in his hands last night, he held out the coffee. There would be no repeat of last night’s lust-fuelled encounter. Romeo had no intention of letting sex clutter up his plans.

He of all people knew one moment of madness could destroy a life. It was the reason he existed. It was the reason his mother had spent years blaming him for destroying her life.

It’s the reason your son’s here.

He accepted that sound analysis, just as he’d accepted that now he knew of Lucca’s existence, he would safeguard his upbringing with everything he possessed. He’d witnessed too many people fall through the cracks to leave his son’s fate to miracles and chance.

His own existence had been proof that miracles didn’t exist.

‘Thank you,’ Maisie murmured huskily, taking the proffered beverage before stepping back to let him in. He handed her the pastry and followed her into the kitchen. She placed the croissants on a plate but didn’t make a move to touch them. ‘It’s a little too early for me.’

Again he experienced a tiny bout of guilt, then told himself there would be plenty of time for her to rest once he got them away from here.

Her gaze flicked to him, then darted away. But in that look Romeo caught the hesitation he’d been dreading. He gritted his teeth.

He didn’t want to resort to plan B, but he would if necessary. ‘Second thoughts are natural. As long as you keep your eye on the big picture.’

She bit her lip. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

‘It’s happening, gattina. We’ll tell Lucca when he wakes up. Is there anyone else you wish to inform? Your parents?’ He vaguely recalled her mentioning them in the intermittent burst of chatter that had preceded him inviting her to his suite that night in Palermo.

Her expression shuttered and she took a large gulp of coffee. ‘My parents are no longer in the picture.’ A bleak note of hurt threaded her voice. ‘And even if they were, this wouldn’t be the ideal scenario to present to them, would it? Their only child marrying the father of her child because the Mafia were issuing threats?’ Her mouth twisted in mocking bitterness.

His eyes narrowed at the odd note in her voice. ‘They wouldn’t want you to do what is necessary to safeguard their grandson?’

Her gaze remained lowered and she crossed her arms around her middle in a gesture of self-preservation. ‘I wouldn’t know. Besides the odd birthday and Christmas card, I haven’t spoken to them in four years.’

Four years. The same length of time as his son had been alive. Certain there was more to the story, he opened his mouth to ask. But her head snapped up and she flashed him a pursed-lip smile.

‘How much time do I have to get my things in order? I’ll need a few days at least to talk to... You’re shaking your head. Why?’ she enquired curtly.

‘We’re leaving this morning.’

‘That’s impossible. I have to pack and make sure I get the right person to look after the restaurant until...’ She stopped and frowned. ‘Will I be able to return any time soon?’ Wide blue eyes stared at him with a mixture of resignation and sadness.

‘Not for a while.’

‘How long is a while?’

‘A few weeks, a few months? It’s probably best that you forget about this place for the time being.’

The sadness was replaced with a flash of anger. ‘That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t spent the better part of two years working night and day to get a business off the ground.’

He allowed himself a small smile. ‘I know a little bit about the hard work it takes to establish a business.’

She grimaced. ‘But you don’t know how it feels to do it on your own with no support from anyone else. The fear that comes from knowing that one failure could mean you have nothing to help you look after your child.’ She shook her head, as if realising how much she’d revealed.

Romeo chose not to enlighten her about his personal relationship with fear and failure—of the rough, terrifying nights he’d spent on the streets when he was barely into his teens; of the desperate need for acceptance that had led him to contemplate, for a blessedly brief moment, whether he was truly his father’s son.

He’d rejected and stumbled away from the gang initiation rites and earned himself a bullseye on his back for a while. But it hadn’t stopped the fermenting thought that perhaps the life of a Mafioso was blueprinted in his blood.