The bottom drops out of my stomach. I knew it. I knew he was holding something back.
“Okay,” I mutter, my voice barely audible.
He doesn’t wait. He turns and starts down the hallway, limping slightly, the white walls of the clinic closing in around us. I follow, my heart hammering painfully against my ribs. We move through a couple of sterile corridors until he pushes open a side door, leading us into a little coffee break room. The lights are dimmer here, softer. The hum of a vending machine fills the silence.
Aslanov walks over to the small couch pressed against the wall and sits down heavily, wincing slightly. He pats the spot beside him without looking at me.
I sit down, careful, feeling the air shift, heavy, electric.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenched together so tightly his knuckles are white.
“Before I tell you,” Aslanov says, voice low, strained, “I want you to know... my feelings for you, they’ll never change. No matter what. Or who you are. Okay?”
I blink at him, thrown off by the sudden tenderness in his voice, by the fierce certainty burning behind his words.
“I don’t care about it,” he says fiercely. “Please... look at me.”
I do.
I turn toward him, and before I can say anything, he reaches out and cradles my face in his palms. His hands are warm, calloused, trembling just a little. He holds me there, like he’s anchoring me.
My heart starts pounding harder. A different kind of fear now, threading cold and fast through my veins.
“Okay,” I whisper, voice shaky. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
His jaw flexes, and for a second, he just stares at me, as if memorizing every detail. His thumbs brush gently along my cheeks, a small grounding motion.
Slowly, he drops his hands but keeps close, his knee brushing against mine.
“The list,” he says, voice low. “The one with the initials. Under N.K. and Lorenzo... the name that was crossed out.”
He pauses, like the next part physically hurts.
“Sal...” He grits his teeth. “His name was Salvatore. Salvatore Lorenzo. Like I told you today when we were seated at the table.”
My stomach twists sharply. I stare at him, trying to process.
“He was Antonio’s brother,” Aslanov says, voice steady but grim. “He used to be the head of the Gambino family. Until Lorenzo took over.”
A buzzing sound fills my ears. I don’t understand where this is going.
He presses forward, words coming slower now, heavier.
“Antonio Lorenzo...” he says. “His last family name... isBrown.”
I blink at him, heart stumbling into my throat.
‘‘This man you know under the name of Nick...’’ Aslanov’s voice drops into something almost broken, ‘‘...he’s Antonio. And he’s your fucking uncle, Isabella.’’
I freeze.
The air seems to rip away from the room.
I can’t move. I can’t speak.
But he doesn’t stop, he can’t stop now.
“That makes Salvatore your biological father.”
