Page 54 of Second Chance Daddy

“Not yet,” I tell Viktor. “Just information for now. Find me all you can about this man. I want him.”

I hang up, and Cassie’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Who was that?” she asks.

“Someone who can help.”

“The police?” She sounds hopeful, naive.

I almost smile. “No. Not the police.”

Her face falls. “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

“What else am I supposed to do? Wait around for him to come back with more trouble? More men?”

“Dante, please. Whatever you’re thinking of doing...” Her eyes flick to where the knives and guns are hidden. “Please don’t. For Aria’s sake.”

For Aria’s sake. The words hit like a sucker punch. Because she’s right—that little girl sleeping upstairs? She doesn’t need violence in her life. The kid doesn’t need to know her father—if I am her father—is the kind of man who knows exactly how to make people disappear.

But what Cassie doesn’t understand is that violence isn’t black and white. If I don’t do something? There’ll be something worse edging in through the night.

Something far more violent.

I turn back to Cassie, jaw tight. “I’m not going to kill him. Just want to have a conversation.”

The kind of conversation that leaves marks, but she doesn’t need to know that part.

Her eyes narrow, not buying it. “Promise me you won’t hurt him. Not unless you absolutely have to.”

I don’t make promises I can’t keep.

“I promised to keep her safe,” I say sharply. “That’s what this is.”

Her shoulders slump, eyes shining like she wants to keep fighting but knows she won’t win. I soften, barely. “Go to bed, Cass. I’ll handle it.”

Her jaw clenches, stubborn as ever, but she leaves.

I follow, but not to sleep. Not yet.

I drift down the hall, past closed doors and quiet rooms, stopping outside the one that matters.

Aria’s.

She’s asleep, tiny body curled beneath the blankets, one fist tucked under her chin. Even in sleep, she’s got my damn face. My eyes. My storm-blue stare.

Every inch of her screams mine.

It hurts to look at her. My chest feels too tight, ribs banded with something heavier than air.

Just then, my phone rings. I close the door, take the call down the hallway, and stare out the window.

“Viktor?”

“Boss. We believe it was Gino Esposito.”

“Gino Esposito?” I repeat through gritted teeth.

“We’re quite positive, boss. The plates belong to him, and we traced it back to his place in Chicago. The height and build from the footage match.”