Chapter 12 Salvatore

I’d faced guns, betrayal, ambushes, and cartel threats without blinking. But standing in my bedroom, staring at my own reflection while trying to decide what the hell a father brings to meet his seven‑year‑old son for the first time? That rattled me.

My hands wouldn’t stay still. I kept adjusting my shirt, fixing my collar, pacing, checking the time, pacing again. I felt like I was vibrating out of my own skin. I didn’t know what Gabe liked. Did he like sports? Cars? Dinosaurs? Books? Did he even know who I was?

A knock sounded on my office door.

“Come in,” I said, trying to sound normal.

Roc stepped inside, a stack of reports in his hand. “Got updates on the runs. Matteo wants...”

He stopped mid‑sentence, eyes narrowing.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I snapped too fast.

Roc raised a brow. “You pacing like a caged bull says otherwise.”

I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m… meeting someone.”

“Who? A woman?” He smirked. “That bartender you’ve been brooding about?”

I glared. “Sara.”

His smirk faded. “Okay. Serious tone. What’s going on?”

I hesitated. But Roc was my right hand. My brother in everything but blood. And if Sara and Gabe were going to be under my protection, he needed to know.

“I have a son,” I said quietly.

Roc froze. “You what?”

“Seven years old.”

He blinked. “Seven? Sal, that’s...holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Congratulations, man. That’s… that’s huge.”

I didn’t smile. I couldn’t. “I’m meeting him tonight.”

Roc’s grin softened into something more serious. “And you’re nervous.”

“I’m not...”

“Salvatore,” he said, crossing his arms, “you’re sweating.”

I glared again, but he wasn’t wrong.

Roc stepped closer. “Okay. First rule of meeting your kid: don’t show up empty‑handed.”

“I don’t know what he likes.”

“Doesn’t matter. Get him something you can do together. A model car kit. Something you build as a team.”

I nodded slowly. That… actually made sense.

“And flowers,” Roc added.

“For Sara?”

“For Sara and her grandmother,” he said. “You’re meeting the whole family. Show respect.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”

Roc clapped my shoulder. “You got this. Just be yourself.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He laughed. “Go. Before you talk yourself out of it.”

I stopped at a small shop on the way, picked out a bouquet of soft pink roses for Sara, bright marigolds for her Abuela, and a model ’67 Mustang kit for Gabe. My hands shook the whole time.

I drove to the address I pulled from her employee file, a small, neat three‑bedroom house in a quiet middle‑class neighborhood. The kind of place with trimmed lawns and kids’ bikes left on porches. A real home. A home she built without me. My chest tightened.

I walked up the path, flowers in one hand, the model kit in the other. I raised my fist to knock, but the door swung open before I touched it. A little boy burst out, curls bouncing, eyes wide and bright. He skidded to a stop in front of me, breathless.

“You’re here!” he said, like he’d been waiting his whole life.

And just like that, my world stopped. My heart stopped. Everything stopped. Because I was looking into my own eyes. My son. Gabe. And he was smiling at me like I was the best thing he’d ever seen.