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ROCCO’S GAZE TRACKED Mia as she walked away from him.
Last night he’d barely slept. Finding out you had a son and discovering the nefarious circumstances that had kept his birth from you had a way of depriving a man of sleep in a way the strongest caffeine or most challenging boardroom negotiations could not achieve. Anger, shock and a sense of profound loss had all wrestled for equal chunks of him.
But in the end, steely resolution had won out.
He had a son. And he intended to claim him, by any means possible.
He walked over and crouched down in front of Gianni, his heart once again overwhelmed by the miracle in front of him. Plump hands lifted up the red racing car to him. He accepted it, swallowing the lump in his throat before settling himself on the floor in front of him.
He had a son who had surpassed all goals to become his number one priority. And for now he had to recognise that mother and son came as a package, which meant any plans he had for Gianni would have to include Mia. He’d known what he needed to do even before he’d picked up the phone to confirm the news to Nonna.
His grandmother’s sobs of happiness had brought a brief smile to his own lips and alleviated any
guilt he felt about what he had to do to secure his place in his son’s life.
The Mia he knew had always been feisty, fighting her corner, whether in the boardroom or against his absolute possession of her in the bedroom, so he had a fight on his hands to convince Mia to fall in with his plans.
And in light of what she’d been through—an ordeal that would’ve cowed most people but evidently not Mia, since she’d remained impressively, admirably spirited—he had to tread carefully. But, ultimately, he was determined to win.
First, he would restore all that had been ripped away from her three years ago. As she’d proved with resounding success to him, money and privilege were a potent aphrodisiac, dispensing with even the staunchest of beliefs. All he had to do was set her dreams in front of her to have her.
Fate, if you believed in that sort of thing, had taken care of her one objection to their previous relationship. She’d been willing to enjoy the influence and power his position brought, but not the child she’d known he’d ultimately wanted.
What had pained him most then and continued to disillusion him now was that she’d been so engrossed in trying to clear her name, so intent on salvaging her career, she’d brushed aside his shocked demand.
His lips thinned in memory of their confrontation that last morning.
Of course, I didn’t want to have your child!
The words still had the power to freeze his insides, the callous words raw and bruisingly bracing in ways he’d never imagined possible.
So why had she gone ahead with the pregnancy?
Had she had a change of heart the moment she’d known she was carrying his child? Or had she needed convincing? How had she coped with the pregnancy itself? With firm resolution, he pushed away the questions. He was burning to know the answers but the reality of his son made them less urgent. The promise he’d made to Nonna had been fulfilled, even without him realising it.
And now he’d been blessed with this gift, he intended to hang onto it with both hands.
Mia stood in front of her wardrobe, eyeing its meagre contents with increasing anxiety. Although why she should be anxious about meeting a bunch of lawyers, she had no idea. Surely she should be celebrating the fact that her name was about to be cleared? She could finally move on with her life and take proper care of her son without having to worry. So why was she stressing over what to wear?
Biting her lip, she acknowledged her anxiety stemmed from another source. Rocco hadn’t mentioned his plans concerning Gianni. And after witnessing the depths of Rocco’s emotions both yesterday and this morning, and the instant bond between father and son, she’d be naïve to think Rocco wouldn’t demand some sort of contact with Gianni.
The thought of being parted from her son for even a minute tore her insides to shreds.
Maybe she was jumping the gun, she mused impatiently as she whipped the only decent outfit—a knee-length navy-blue dress with a crossover bodice that had seen better days—off the hanger. The soft jersey material would have to do the job of keeping her warm, especially since she’d been putting off buying tights until the weather got really cold. She located her black-heeled pumps at the back of the wardrobe, slipped them on and took a few experimental steps to the window and back. Having lived in flats and trainers since Gianni’s birth, the last thing she wanted to do was to topple over in her three-inch heels with her son in her arms.
Confident she could carry it off without coming across like a limping ostrich, she brushed her hair, smoothed on a trace of gloss and re-hung the clothes she’d strewn on the bed. Checking her appearance one last time, she slipped into Gianni’s room and picked up the bag she’d packed for him.
The sound of laughter reached her ears as she descended the stairs.
The first thing she saw was Rocco’s legs splayed out, followed by powerful thighs, lean tapered hips and impressive torso, on which lay her son, giggling uncontrollably at the faces his father, sprawled out on her living room floor, was pulling.
It took several moments for them to realise they had an audience, and several more for the humour to be wiped from Rocco’s eyes. In those moments, she was reminded of when they’d been together, sharing a joke, or laughing for no reason, simply because she was happy.
The painful reminder delivered a punch so forceful to her midsection, she struggled to catch her breath.
‘I... I’m ready,’ she said, her voice scratchy with torn emotions.
She wanted to hate Rocco, she really did. But now she was presented with the picture of an indulgent father and content son, her heart flipped in a way that sent huge alarm bells through her brain.
