Page 228 of Made in Love and Blood

“And you’re out here having a panic attack, why?”

Nico’s stare finally lifted to meet Salvatore’s as a tear escaped. He didn’t wipe it away. “I don’t think I know what to do.”

He had news for Nico.

“It’s too late for that now,” Sal said.

Nico scoffed, but it didn’t feel too serious.

“That feeling?” Salvatore asked. “It never gets better. You’re never ready, you never know what the fuck you’re doing, and when you finally make it to what feels like the end of raising that kid, you’re not gonna have the first clue how you even got there. But you will, Nico. We all get there. Okay?”

Nico nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You ready to go back in? I’d like to meet him.”

“He’s so fucking perfect.”

His hands met his face, and he cried hard. Salvatore knew that feeling, too.

The inability to comprehend how one could create something so amazing, so beautiful. And how the whole world just fell into one’s hands at the same time. All that responsibility and devotion to a single, small human who looked just like you...or like the one you loved.

Children shifted life’s outlook the moment they drew their first breath...and when they didn’t. Salvatore understood both sides all too well. That was fatherhood; it couldn’t be helped.

He pulled Nico into a hug and waited him out, and then he let the kid take him to meet his grandson.

•••

Two summers later...

“Sal, you gotta watch!” Carina demanded.

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Sal!”

“Twenty seconds left, boss man.”

Salvatore glanced at the clock at the corner of the television screen, and then the panning image of girls in USA uniforms darting down the soccer green. He was so used to looking for the name GALLO on the back of Frankie’s jersey, that he forgot to check for RUSSO.

That was the only reason he almost missed seeing her goal.

The winning goal. The goal for gold.

The room erupted. Full of those who lived or work on his estate, and a handful more including Big Mike, his wife, Isabella, and their large brood had all been invited to watch the final game of the summer Olympics being held in Los Angeles. A lot like the hometown crowd on the screen, and the announcers that roared into microphones about how a girl from Staten Island, New York who refused every sponsorship and endorsement deal offered in leu of teammates who deserved or needed them more, helped the team win the gold medal at the final second on the clock. Frankie had that gift. She made it happen.

She barely did interviews leading up to the games. She worked harder than anyone knew to keep up classes, even changing her major a year into college, and take care of her baby while playing at the level Team USA demanded of her. She even stayed on call as an alternate during last year’s World Cup but hadn’t played. He stopped counting the millions he paid in chartered flights over the past couple of years just so she could see her son during training camps and testing.

Every fucking dollar? Worth it.

“That’s your sissy,” he told SJ, pointing at the TV and bouncing the clapping, happy boy. He didn’t understand, the toddler. Neither did Dove, shouting excitedly because her mom did.

Salvatore’s phone buzzed, and he figured it was probably someone sending their congratulations. He pulled out he device to check it nonetheless, keeping it out of SJ’s reach as best he could as he navigated the screen to open the message.

It wasn’t from just anyone. Nico’s contact stared back and the video he’d sent. Straight from the sidelines.

Salvatore would’ve given anything to be in Los Angeles. Literally anything. His entire portfolio of wealth. His undying loyalty, if someone asked.

The one thing he couldn’t give? His life.