Chapter 57 – Bianca Romano is Back (Damian’s POV)

Chapter 57 – Bianca Romano is Back (Damian’s POV)
I turned an icy glare on Bianca. My heart was slamming against my ribs painfully, but I kept my voice level. “Bianca. You have some nerve showing up here unannounced.”

She pressed a manicured hand to her chest in mock offense. “Is that any way to greet an old flame?” She tilted her head, sunglasses catching the morning light as she regarded me with mischief. “You look good, darling. Muscled up since I last saw you.”

I was in no mood for her coy banter. My eyes flicked to the boy on her hip, then back to her. My voice came out rough. “Why are you here, Bianca? Who’s the child?”

Her grin widened, a predator sensing blood. “Straight to the point—some things never change.” Gently, she set the little boy down. He immediately pressed against her leg, half-hiding behind her coat. Bianca rested manicured fingers on his shoulder. “Damian, this is Angelo.” She paused, for effect no doubt. “Our son.”

I went very still. It felt as if the world had tilted on its axis and I was sliding off, grasping for purchase. I stared at the child—at Angelo. Green eyes, olive complexion, dark mop of curls. Features that could, maybe, in some universe, be called similar to mine.

No. This was absurd. I dragged my gaze back to Bianca’s face. She was watching me like a cat watched a trapped mouse, relishing every second of my shock.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” I said softly, dangerously, “but it ends now. I do not have a son.”

Bianca’s expression flickered—she pouted dramatically. “You always were a skeptic. Fine, we’ll do this the hard way.” She looked down at the boy. “Angelo, baby, say hello to… your daddy.”

The boy peeked up at me shyly. He had a delicate face, baby-fat still lingering on his cheeks. When our eyes met, something bizarre tugged in my chest—a mixture of protectiveness and denial and confusion. He wasn’t mine. He couldn’t be.

Angelo shrank back against Bianca instead of greeting me, overwhelmed by the tension.

I cleared my throat, tearing my gaze away. Anger gave me back my voice. “You show up after, what, five years, parading a child—”

“Four years,” she corrected sweetly. “He’s four. Conceived right around the time you and I had our little… rendezvous.” She lowered her sunglasses from her head onto her nose, eyeing me over the top of them. “You remember Monte Carlo, don’t you? The yacht. The champagne. One bed in that tiny cabin…”

A red flush crept up my neck. Of course I remembered that night—at least, parts of it. A haze of grief and alcohol and trying to forget my damned responsibilities for a weekend. Bianca had been there, opportunistic and stunning. I was reckless and rough with her, I recalled that much. But did I…? Could this boy truly…?

Bianca tutted at my silence. “You were pretty drunk; I’m not surprised it’s fuzzy. But I remember, darling. Every bit of it.”

I grit my teeth. “This is insane. If you thought this child was mine, why wait until now to come here? Why not contact me immediately?” I knew the answer, though: because she never considered the possibility until she needed something. Until it was convenient.

Sure enough, Bianca’s mask of sugary charm slipped, revealing steel underneath. She lifted her chin, green eyes flashing. “I did what I had to do. I wasn’t sure at first if he was… well, yours. By the time I suspected, you had your hands full running the pack and playing gangster. Would you have dropped everything for me back then? Hardly.”

My nostrils flared. Typical Bianca—twisting facts to justify her choices. “So why now? What changed?”

She smiled thinly and stroked Angelo’s hair. The boy pressed closer to her, silent and wide-eyed. “He started asking about his father,” she said softly. “And the truth is, raising a child alone is hard. Even for someone with my… resources.” Her gaze turned calculating. “Angelo deserves the best, and that means knowing where he came from. Maybe even being formally acknowledged.”

Acknowledged? My wolf bristled at the very suggestion. If this boy was mine, he’d be the heir to my pack, my businesses—everything. That could not be handed out on one person’s claim alone.

“This pack won’t accept any heir without proof,” I stated, folding my arms. “If you truly believe he’s mine, we’ll arrange a DNA test immediately.” In truth, my mind was still screaming no, but logic demanded confirmation.

Bianca waved a hand as if bored. “Fine by me. Swab his cheek, pluck a hair—whatever you need to do.” She smirked. “But in the meantime, Angelo and I will need a place to stay. You wouldn’t turn away your son, would you?”

She was baiting me and doing a damn good job of it. I wanted to snarl that he wasn’t my son until proven otherwise and throw her manipulative ass out on the curb. But one glance at Angelo’s innocent face still peeking from behind her coat stilled my tongue. If—if—he was mine, I wouldn’t be the bastard that terrified him by screaming at his mother in front of him. I’d play this carefully until I knew the truth.

Before I could decide how to respond, movement on the front steps drew my attention. Ivy.

She stood just outside the door, having apparently slipped out while my focus was on Bianca. She must have thrown on clothes in a hurry—a pair of black leggings and a long gray cardigan hung on her damp frame. Her hair was wet, loose around her shoulders. Her face… oh God. Her face was paper-white, her eyes locked on the little boy clinging to Bianca.

Time seemed to slow. Ivy’s expression wasn’t one of rage or shock. It was infinitely worse—utter blankness, like she’d been hollowed out from the inside.

I took a step toward the stairs. “Ivy—”

She didn’t even look at me. Her eyes remained on Angelo for a beat longer, something like heartbreak flickering in their depths before she shuttered it. Without a word, Ivy turned and walked back inside, closing the door gently behind her.