Chapter 7 - THE TETHER OF THE PAST
The word hung in the humid air of the diner like a heavy curtain.
My child.
Sophia’s eyes snapped open wider, tears finally welling up along her lower lashes, catching the sharp light of the overhead fixtures. “It’s my baby, Dante,” she breathed out, her voice breaking on the second word. “I raised this baby alone. I worked twelve-hour shifts on my feet for this baby. You don't get to come in here in your three-thousand-dollar suit and claim what I bled for!”
Dante’s hand finally closed the distance. His broad, warm palm rested flat against the curve of her stomach, pressing firmly against the pink cotton of her uniform.
The heat of his hand burned through the thin fabric. The moment his palm made contact, the baby inside kicked again, striking right against the center of his hand.
Dante froze.
A shockwave seemed to pass through his entire frame. The ruthless, calculating crime lord who commanded dozens of men and controlled millions in dark capital vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by a man completely overwhelmed by the undeniable, physical proof of his own blood pulsing beneath his fingers. His eyes widened, his chest expanding in a ragged, shallow breath as he felt the distinct, powerful kick of his unborn child.
His hand cupped her belly with sudden, protective tenderness, but his eyes remained dark and unyielding when he looked back up at her face.
“You thought you could hide from me?” Dante asked softly, his voice dangerously low. “You thought you could take what belongs to me, run to some forgotten pit of a town, wear a faded uniform, and pretend I wouldn't find you?”
“I ran because I wanted my child to grow up without blood on their hands!” Sophia hissed back, her posture stiffening as anger briefly washed over her fear. “I ran because I didn't want this baby growing up in a house surrounded by armed men, locked doors, and secrets!”
May you like
Dante’s eyes flickered over her shoulder toward the two bodyguards stationed at the doors. Then he looked back at her worn sneakers, the splatters of cold coffee on her ankles, and the dark circles carved under her brown eyes.
“Look at you,” Dante said, his tone shifting into something cold, sharp, and possessively cruel. “You’re exhausted. You’re working yourself to the bone in a dump that smells of old grease. You’re destroying your body... carrying my heir in the dirt.”
