Chapter seventy six

Chapter seventy six
Alex pov.

I walked out of the very expensive car my father had sent to pick me up. He had been calling nonstop, just to confirm if I wouldn’t back out at the last moment. I was actually tempted to. Kira just got back today as well. Why should I spend the day with my deadbeat father when I could have all the fun with my best friend?

A smile curled up my lips at the thought of seeing her. God, it’s been so long. Six months on honeymoon with her husband—insane. I hoped she already had a baby bump just to spite everyone who said she’d never settle down.

The restaurant was one of those places where everything gleamed—glass, marble, muted gold accents. The kind of place where people spoke softly, not because they were polite, but because they were important. The kind of place my mother would’ve been terrified to walk into, afraid of being asked to leave before she even sat down.

An attendant led me past the main dining area into a private section. Of course. Mr. Russo wouldn’t want anyone overhearing a reunion that might stain his image. He was already seated when I walked in, posture relaxed, suit perfectly tailored. For a man over fifty, he looked infuriatingly good—silver at his temples, sharp eyes, expensive watch. A man who had clearly lived well.

Waiting for the son he had abandoned for twenty-five years.

“I’m glad to see you, son,” he said, standing slightly, a practiced smile on his face. “I didn’t expect you’d actually show up.”

“Well, if there’s one thing I didn’t take from you,” I replied, forcing a polite smile as I sat across from him, “it’s actually showing up.”

The smile faltered for half a second before he recovered. He always did. Men like him were experts at recovery.

“Now,” I continued, folding my napkin and placing it on my lap with deliberate care, “get to it.”

I didn’t come here for pleasantries. Joke’s on him if he thought we’d sit around drinking wine, reminiscing about a past that never existed. There was no father-son bond to ease into. There was just history—bloody, ugly history.

He cleared his throat. “I see your friend…” He paused, eyes sharp as they flicked over my face. “…didn’t come with you?”

I frowned at the emphasis. “First of all—ew. That man is not my friend. Second, is there a reason why I’m here? I didn’t take a day off to discuss my friend, did I, Mr. Russo?”

He chuckled lightly, raising his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

The waiter arrived with the food, breaking the tension for a brief moment. I waited until he left before speaking again.

“If you’re not okay with your workplace,” Mr. Russo began carefully, “you can come work—”

“I’m very much happy where I work, thank you.” I cut him off, not bothering to look at him as I picked up a fork and stabbed into the appetizer—some delicate thing with microgreens and gold leaf that looked more like art than food. I took a bite anyway. It tasted like nothing.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I just thought of offering. No pressure at all.”

I almost laughed. “Even if there was, you can’t pressure me.”

He studied me for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “There will always be a place for you with me, Alex. Even though I haven’t been the ideal father, I’m trying to be one now.”

I froze, fork hovering mid-air.

“Just because I agreed to dinner,” I said slowly, setting the fork down, “doesn’t mean our non-existent relationship suddenly exists.”

“I know you still hate me,” he said softly, “but I truly want the best for you and your… mother.”

I cringed so hard it almost hurt. My head snapped up, eyes locking onto his. “How is abandoning a poor mother and her child to fend for themselves ‘wanting the best’ for them?”

“Alex—”

“Please don’t start,” I interrupted, inhaling deeply. I had promised myself I wouldn’t lose control. I had rehearsed this in my head—cool, detached, unaffected. But twenty-five years was a long time. Seventeen years of being forced into adulthood. Of stealing food. Of begging. Of watching my mother slowly disappear piece by piece.

All for this man to sit here and tell me he wanted the best for us?

For us?

My mother had died in my arms. In my fucking arms. Trying to shield me from the cold, from the rain, whispering apologies like it was her fault. My jaw clenched as I bit my lip hard, forcing the memories back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Alex,” his voice cracked. “I did look for you. I swear I did. Your mother hid from me. I tried everything I could to help.”

A bitter laugh tore out of me. “Of course she’s dead now. Whether you’re lying or not, who’s going to know? It’s so much easier to lie against a dead person!”

His face went pale. “Please…”. 

“You looked for me?” I continued, my voice rising despite my best efforts. “Twenty-five years, father. Twenty-five fucking years! It wouldn’t have taken you a week to find us. You’re rich. You’re powerful. One missing persons report, one private investigator, one fucking phone call and you’d have found us. But you didn’t.”

I leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “Because all you rich people care about is your reputation. That’s all that matters. Then when you get old and realize there’s no one to inherit your precious legacy, suddenly you remember you have an abandoned son.”

His hands shook as he gripped his fork. “That’s not true—”

“It is!” I snapped. “Everything is always about you. You. Your name. Your legacy.” My chest heaved as another name flashed through my mind—Brandon. Cold eyes. Careful distance. Control disguised as concern. “Every fucking one of you is selfish. You think showing up to dinner fixes seventeen years of watching my mother starve herself so I could eat? You think a job offer and a sorry excuse erases the nights I slept in bus stations because we got evicted again?”

“Alex, please…” His eyes were wet now, genuine or not, I didn’t care. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered.

I stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor. Heads turned outside the private section, curious. Good. Let them hear.

“We are done here, Mr. Russo,” I said, my voice shaking but firm. “It’s been unfortunate meeting you again. Thanks to you, my weekend will be miserable.”