Page 61 of Second Chance Daddy

I shut that shit down fast.

“You want pancakes, Nugget?” I murmur to the kid. “I’ll make you pancakes.”

Cassie’s brow lifts like I just offered to perform brain surgery.

“You? Cook?” Her voice is dry as hell. “Like hell.”

I grin, slow and cocky. “Trust a little. Live it up, Cass. A bad breakfast won’t kill you.”

Aria giggles, her whole face lighting up, and just like that? I’m gone for this kid. She finds me funny.

We untangle, the bed’s still warm when I slide out, tug on a shirt, and head downstairs.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the kitchen frying eggs, flipping pancakes, making coffee like I’ve been doing this domestic bullshit my whole life. Cassie’s by the counter, arms crossed, wearing nothing but one of my shirts that barely hits mid-thigh.

I make pancakes badly. Burn the first one, the kid laughs like I’m a damn clown, and Cassie shakes her head like she’s regretting her entire life. But the second batch turns out edible.

Cassie’s watching me like I’m performing an act of terror.

“Relax,” I tell her, sliding a pancake onto Aria’s plate with a cocky grin. “They’re edible. I didn’t lace them with cyanide.”

Her eyes roll, but I catch it—that tiny twitch of her lips. The one that tells me I’m getting under her skin.

Aria stuffs her face, syrup smeared across her cheek, and lets out the loudest giggle I’ve ever heard. “You cook good!” She beams, like I’ve just solved world hunger.

That sound? That look? It settles right in my chest like concrete. Certainty.

This.

This morning. These two.

Nothing’s ever mattered more.

I watch the kid while she eats. I can't get enough of her, to be honest. I don’t know why, but every time she looks at me, it’s likegetting punched in the ribs—the shape of her eyes, the stormy blue-gray color, and the familiar tilt to her smile.

I shake it off, clearing plates, making small talk, but my mind’s a restless beast. Anxiety’s been planted there since last night. Since I saw that fucker outside and remembered what was scrawled across those photos I saw in the car outside Cass’s house.

Confirm paternity. Then terminate.

Not on my fucking watch.

Later, after breakfast, I head for my office and call a guy I know who’s the best at surveillance across the Midwest.

Later, when they’re upstairs and the house is quiet again, I lock myself in the office, phone pressed to my ear.

“Put someone on Gino Esposito,” I tell him. “I want eyes on him full-time. Every step. Every move, especially if he’s making one against his ex-wife, Cassie Russo.”

“You expecting him to make one?” my guy asks.

“I’m expecting him to try,” I mutter, staring out the window at the long stretch of driveway where shadows still crawl even in daylight. “And when he does? I want to know before his foot hits the gas.”

If anything happens to that kid… if anyone even fucking thinks about putting either of them in danger…

I end the call.

Later that afternoon, with Cassie at the bakery, it’s just the kid and me, sprawled across the living room floor like two inmates on yard time. Aria’s tiny body stretched out like a starfish,crayons, glitter, and paper wreckage covering every inch of the carpet. The place looks like a kindergarten crime scene.

She tugs at my sleeve, her little fingers curling around the fabric, eyes wide, grin so bright it could short-circuit the lights.