I approach the door, my hand on the doorknob. I don’t turn around, but I wait. I give her time to say whatever needs to be said.
Will she ridicule the way I dealt with Sophia?
“Are you always going to run away from me?” she asks.
I scoff at her suggestion, and I can’t let it go. I turn around to face her and lean with my back against the door. “When have I ever run? If I recall, you pushed me away. You kept the fact that you were pregnant a secret. Tell me, Aleksandra, when have I run away from you?”
She stalls for a second.
There was an instance where I left after finding that FBI agent’s business card, but she told me to go.
Her tongue darts out and swipes across her top lip. “You’re right, but you’re running now. Having children isn’t easy. Don’t just walk away because you screwed up and yelled at our daughter. Accept responsibility.”
She sounds just like a mother, scolding a teenager. But I’m not her child, and I’m not in adolescence.
“You’re going to make mistakes,” she says, her voice softer, gentler, and calmer. If one of us is rational, it’s Aleksandra. She steps closer toward me and untangles my arms folded against my chest.
“I don’t make mistakes,” I grunt.
I’m waiting for her to roll her eyes, but she’s far more patient with me than I’d expect. It’s hard to argue with her when she’s not fighting me. This calm demeanor throws me askew.
“Of course, you don’t,” she says and raises an eyebrow. Her gaze is locked on mine, waiting for me to say something.
She probably wants me to apologize.
Damnit.
I don’t make apologies. It’s a sign of weakness amongst the family, my mafia family. But Aleksandra is part of my family now, too, and Sophia and Liam.
Sighing, I squeeze Aleksandra’s hand and bury the anger, silencing it within me. No one can ever know the secret power that she holds over me. My men wouldn’t pay me the proper respect that I’ve earned. But my daughter fearing me is the last thing I want to happen.