Page 2 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don

But a man has his pride, right?

Plus, I already knew I was in too deep with her, and it was scaring the hell out of me.

No, it was ideal that she left me. She saved me from myself.

My father's voice rings in my head. "Calabresi men aren’t pussies, Marco. They don't chase women. They don't beg. And there’s no such thing as love. Don’t fall for it.”

I’ve believed that shit my whole life.

Why wouldn’t I? My mother was a shell of a woman, her essence beaten away by my father, who tried to do the same to me.

But I was stronger, learned to navigate his mercurial and savage moods.

He didn’t give a shit about me, not when he had my older brother Tony, who treated me nearly as poorly as my father.

Fuck ‘em both.

It must piss them off in hell where they now reside that I’m the Don because they believed they were invincible.

The Bratva showed them differently, killing them both.

I sigh. No, nothing in my life has shown me that love exists.

Except for a moment last year when Gabriella Monti stormed into my world with her law books and quick mind, challenging everything I thought I knew.

"You're afraid," she'd said once, curled against me in the dark. "Not of dying. Of living."

I'd laughed it off, even as I knew there was some truth to it. More accurately, I’m afraid of feeling.

The truth is, I never planned to give her more.

She was a temporary distraction. An itch that needed to be scratched.

Marriage? Children?

That’s for other men like Roman, my best friend and second in line.

He’ll take over from me once I go.

I glance upward, even as I know my father is in hell.

I lift my glass to him. “Fuck you, old man. Your legacy ends with me.”

I can’t tell you how much satisfaction I get from knowing that. If he were here, he’d kill me for this because his legacy meant everything to him.

But even if I didn’t have the ultimate revenge on my father, I know I’m not capable of love like Roman is.

I’d rather live in my safe, emotionless world. For me, love is weakness.

The knock on my door is short, forceful, and relieving. I need to stop ruminating about Gabriella.

Roman enters, striding toward my desk, and places something on my papers.

I walk over to study the misshapen lump of dough covered in green frosting and what appears to be an entire container of silver sprinkles.

"What the fuck is this?"

"A Christmas tree." Roman smirks. "Angelica made it for her favorite Uncle Marco. She said, and I quote, 'He needs more Christmas in his life.'"