Chapter 8 - Dinner with the Don
The city lights sparkled like a sea of diamonds beyond the dining room glass.
Adrian had dismissed all the guards and staff from the floor, leaving only the two of us in the quiet expanse of the penthouse. Classical music played softly from hidden speakers, and the scent of rosemary, garlic, and fresh bread filled the air.
I took a bite of the roasted chicken, and a quiet moan escaped my lips before I could stop myself. It was heavenly. After months of surviving on cheap noodles and day-old bakery scraps, real food tasted like pure luxury.
A small smirk played on Adrian’s lips from across the table. "Good?"
"Don't flatter yourself. Your chef is talented, not you," I retorted, though the sharp edge had left my voice.
"I can cook," Adrian said, cutting a piece of steak. "My grandmother was Sicilian. If you couldn't roll pasta by the age of seven, you weren't allowed to eat dinner."
I smiled faintly, picturing a young, brooding Adrian being disciplined by a fierce Italian grandmother. The image made him seem remarkably human—not the demon the media painted him to be.
"Why didn't you tell me that night?" I asked softly, setting down my fork. "At the Drake. You introduced yourself as Adrian Cross. An investor."
"If I had told you my real name, you would have run out of the ballroom before I could buy you a drink," Adrian admitted, holding my gaze. "I saw you standing by the champagne fountain, looking at the city art donors like they were hypocrites. You were real. Fierce. Unafraid to roll your eyes at billionaires. I didn't want the mafia boss to ruin the chance of being the man who made you laugh."
Heat rose in my cheeks. That night had been magical. We had talked for hours about history, art, and philosophy before retreating to his penthouse suite. It had been the most passionate, intoxicating night of my life.
And then, in the morning, I had found his phone buzzing with messages about dock shipments, cartel warnings, and body counts. Terror had driven me away.
"You should have let me go, Adrian," I murmured.
Adrian stood up and walked around the long mahogany table. He stopped behind my chair, his hands resting lightly on the wood.
"I tried," he confessed into my hair. "For two weeks, I told myself you were just a fleeting distraction. Then I realized I couldn't sleep without your scent on my sheets. I couldn't focus on meetings without seeing your smile. And then my investigators found the prenatal clinic records."
He knelt down beside my chair, bringing his face level with mine.
Slowly, tentatively, Adrian raised his large, scarred hand. His eyes asked for permission.
My breath trembled in my lungs. For months, I had been completely alone, feeling the baby move in the dark with no one to share the wonder. I gave him a subtle nod.
Adrian placed his palm against the curve of my belly.
Almost on cue, as if recognizing his father’s voice, the baby delivered a sharp, energetic kick right into Adrian’s palm.
Adrian’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, glistening with an emotion so fierce and vulnerable it cracked the remaining walls around my heart.
"He’s strong," Adrian whispered, his voice trembling slightly. He rested his forehead against my stomach, closing his eyes as our son kicked again. "He knows me."
May you like
Tears pricked my eyes as I reached down, my fingers tangling in Adrian’s thick, dark hair. In that quiet room, forty floors above the chaotic streets, we weren't a mafia king and a fugitive girl. We were a family.
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