Page 75 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don

It's like she's determined to unravel me completely.

"I looked for you after skating. You were gone. That’s the definition of abandoning.”

I should apologize, but I don’t.

I keep my eyes fixed on a knot in the cedar wall behind her, avoiding the sight of her bare shoulders and the way her skin glistens. "I’m surprised you noticed. Besides, I’m no fun, remember?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Why is that?”

“Why is what?” I lean back and close my eyes. Maybe if I act indifferent, she’ll take the hint and leave.

“You’re no fun.”

“Why do you care? Paulie was able to step in and entertain you.” The minute the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I've revealed too much, shown my hand. I open my eyes to see if I’m right.

Her lips curve into a knowing smile that makes me want to kiss it off her face. "You're jealous."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Then what would you call it?" She shifts, the movement causing her towel to slip slightly before she catches it.

Heat crawls up my neck, and it has nothing to do with the sauna. "Relief that you weren’t going to hassle me about skating anymore.”

Her expression tells me she doesn’t believe me. “Why can't you just let go for once, Marco? Why can't you let yourself enjoy something—anything?"

"Life isn't about enjoyment."

"Then what's it about? Control? Power? Being the most miserable man in the room?"

I hate that she can read me so easily when I've spent decades building walls no one should be able to penetrate.

"Not everyone gets the luxury of happiness, Gabriella."

"It's not a luxury. It's a choice. One you refuse to make." She stands and comes to sit next to me. I tense to guard against her nearness.

"You know I hate the holidays."

"It's not just the holidays." She shifts closer, the scent of her filling my senses. "You're always like this. Closed off. Controlled. Why can't you ever just be happy?"

The question is painful. "Happy. You think I don't know how to be happy."

"Do you?"

I almost laugh. The irony is too bitter.

For a year, I've carried memories of her.

Moments stolen between meetings, nights spent tangled in sheets, mornings watching her sleep in filtered sunlight.

Moments when something dangerously close to happiness had crept into my carefully guarded heart.

And she didn't even notice. If she had, would she have stayed?

"I am who I am, Gabriella." I’m pleased that my voice is controlled, nearly indifferent considering how crazed I feel. “You should give up trying to change me. I don't see you trying to conform to what I want."

“What do you want?” she asks.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, I am who I am. I don’t need saving or changing."