Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Breathe, Emma,” Enzo tells me.
“Don’t tell me to breathe.”
He hums out, the noise so similar to the one his cousin made on his phone that I wonder if it’s a mafia thing. Communicating his judgment without words. I try to pull air into my lungs, but they reject the notion of breathing. I’m sure I’m going to pass out in this car.
“Mama?”
Matteo’s voice pulls me back. When the panic attacks started, he had only been a baby. I’d never had them before, but the midwife told me that sometimes childbirth can trigger mental health disorders. I had been hoping it would go away as Matteo got older. They never did. Between medication and therapy, I have it under control most of the time.
I glance at Enzo, who is watching me for a concerning amount of time for someone who should look at the road. “Mama’s okay, honey,” I tell Matteo. The last thing I need is him worrying about me.
With the panic attack fading, I try to act like Enzo didn’t shatter the illusion I was living in. That Matteo and I were safely away from him. We’d be able to live our lives without him ever knowing he exists.
Everything, these past five years, has been in vain.
How long has he known? Has it been years? Was he letting me raise his heir just to sweep in when he felt ready? Despite my father’s robust salary, if we end up in court fighting over Matteo, Enzo’s family has far more money and resources. My father is one of many of them. And they probably have judges on their payroll.
And that's assuming they'll decide to settle this in court. The mafia isn’t known for taking legal avenues.
Gone is the charming smile. With his secret out and Matteo and I trapped in the car, he no longer has to fake. Instead, his face is a blank canvas. Eerily nonchalant.
It reminds me of Matteo. More than one of his preschool teachers has commented on how unnerving he can be. A serious, stern-looking child who never gives his thoughts away for free. Matteo only lets in those he trusts. Which has only ever been my aunt and I. Even with my father, he has never opened up fully.
If it’s the same for Enzo, then I’m not sure I’ll ever have access. I don’t want access. His very existence is a threat to my child.
Our child.
I flinch. It’s an inconvenient truth I like to ignore. It feels unfair that he gets the same claim to the child I grew with my body. I doubt his family will feel the same.
“And my father?” I ask once I'm sure I won't spiral into another panic attack.
“What about your father?”
“I was told he's hurt. Is that true?”
Enzo lets out a sharp laugh. “Your father got off easy. He’s fine. Not that he deserves to be. Most people who face the wrath of Salvador Lombardi are not. He’s got a black eye and maybe a broken collarbone, but hardly anything that would put him in the hospital.”
I let out a sigh of relief though my heart still aches. It’s a minor relief. Being fine doesn’t mean he's safe. That doesn’t mean either of us is safe.
“He’s on lockdown. Twenty-four watch by guards. We won’t allow him to leave the property until things have been properly sorted,” he informs me.
For someone who grew up with a direct connection to the mafia, I was oblivious to the horrors of the world until after I had turned 18. Father had made sure of it. He sheltered me away from the truths of the world, from the truths of his job and his employer. It wasn’t until my father had told me about Enzo, had told me all about the Lombardi family, that I became obsessed with learning everything I could about organized crime.
It might be part of what triggered the panic attacks.
While other women in the pregnancy forums I joined were obsessing over the weekly updates about their baby, I was watching every documentary I could get my hands on. I spent hours looking up papers and researching every piece of public information I could find. It still hadn’t been enough,
It worried my aunt. She would encourage me to put on something more light-hearted and bought me books on child development. When I tried to read those, I fixated on the genetic portion. Nature vs. nurture. Was violence something that would be in my child’s blood?
On more than one occasion, my aunt called my father since she was so concerned about me. He only fueled my obsession. He thought it was best I understood who I would be up against if they ever realized.
All my worry about my child being born violent disappeared when I held him in my arms for the first time. He was so precious.