Chapter 9 - The Sovereign on the Rug
Alexander did not speak to Rachel first.
He took three slow, measured strides across the small apartment, his leather shoes silent on the braided rug, until he stood less than two feet from the little girl.
Then, the feared head of the New York syndicate did something that would have caused every capo in the Five Families to question their sanity.
He sank directly onto both knees.
He lowered his large, muscular frame until he was completely eye-level with Sophie, his bespoke trousers resting on the worn linoleum, his hands open and flat upon his thighs. Up close, he could smell the clean strawberry shampoo in her braided hair; he could see the tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose; he could see the rare, luminous gray-green of her eyes—his eyes, staring back at him from the face of an angel.
"You called the ambulance, little bird," Alexander said.
His voice was a low, velvet rumble, but it was cracked, trembling with an emotion that stripped away every shred of his mafia armor.
Sophie nodded solemnly, looking at the black ink trailing over his knuckles. "You were purple. The other men wouldn't stop, but I knew you were cold."
"You saved my life, Sophie," Alexander whispered, his vision blurring with hot, unshed tears. "You saved me when nobody else would reach down into the dirt."
Sophie looked past his shoulder at the bed, where her mother was weeping silently into her hands, then looked back into Alexander’s gray eyes.
"Are you my daddy?" she asked.
The question was so pure, so completely devoid of anger or accusation, that it tore the final defenses from Alexander’s chest.
He reached out his right hand—the hand that had signed execution orders and directed an empire of shadows. With infinite, trembling care, his calloused thumb reached up and gently wiped away a stray tear that had settled on her cheek.
"I am, Sophie," Alexander choked out, his voice breaking completely. "I am your daddy. And I am so sorry it took me six years to find you."
Sophie looked at his hand resting against her face. She felt the heavy, volcanic warmth of his skin, the absolute lack of violence in his touch, and the steady, rhythmic beat of his chest beneath his black shirt.
She did not cry.
With the effortless, fearless grace of a child claiming what was rightfully hers, Sophie set the plastic medicine cup onto the bedside table, took half a step forward, and wrapped both of her small arms tightly around Alexander’s neck.
Her cheek pressed against the black ink of his throat, right over his pulse.
May you like
Alexander closed his eyes.
A ragged, shuddering breath tore from his chest as his broad arms came around her small body, lifting her into his chest, holding her against his heart with a desperate, crushing tenderness that promised to tear down the world before he ever let her go again.
