I walk out the door and see my girls running toward me. Opening my arms to them, within seconds, one is on each side. I pull them into a hug and look up to see Vincent standing in front of me, looking at me. I notice immediately he has no sunglasses on shielding his eyes and that he looks like he has something to say.

“Ice cream! We want ice cream!”

“Everything all right?” I ask Vincent.

When he just stares blankly at me, I know something is off.

“Girls, run inside. Aunt Joe is here, I’m sure.” I don’t have to try to convince them when they run into the house at the mere mention of Aunt Joe’s name.

“What is it?”

His eyes shift toward the car, where I see a man inside.

Immediately, realization sets in. I know who it is.

As I begin walking past Vincent, he reaches for my arm, grabbing it lightly. I turn swiftly and grab his arm.

“Goddammit, Valentina,” he says right before I twist and sweep his legs out from under him, a move he taught me, before proceeding to the car.

Before I get to it, the door is opened, and he steps out.

Franco.

My heart stops.

His clothes cling to his body tighter than I ever remember him wearing them. He looks bigger, older, stronger, and worn. His hair is shorter.

I had years to prepare for what I would say to him, yet no words come out of my mouth. Instead, I inhale slowly, trying to put air back in my lungs, the air that has been knocked out by the sight of him.

I want to be angry at him, to slap him, to tell him how much he hurt me. At the same time, I want to tell him I understand. I understand him and forgive him. I want him to wrap those strong arms around me, to lift me, to place his lips to mine. I want him to whisper how he has missed me, that he loves me, that he is sorry, and that he will make it up to me, to us, for the rest of his very long life.

“I have no holes in me today, Valentina.” When he says my name, it’s the most beautiful my name has sounded in nearly ten years.

“I see that,” I manage to say.

I stand still, waiting for him to move toward me.

“I won’t go down as easily as your man.”

Man is said in disgust, which gives me a little hope.

“I’m not her man,” Vincent says, coming up from behind me. “I’m her protector.”

Franco lifts his sunglasses and cocks his head, giving Vincent a look of inquisition.

Vincent huffs. “Are you—”

“Please leave us,” I cut him off.

When Vincent walks away, Franco watches him.

“Whatever you have to say, please do so now.”

He still doesn’t look at me, and I am still waiting for him to.

“I know it was you, or your family, who had me released a day early.”

“I had no knowledge.”

He finally looks at me as he pulls up his sleeves then leans against the car. “I don’t believe you.”

“My word is my word, Franco,” I assure him as I look over his arms, seeing scars. I reach out to touch them.

A growl leaves his chest. “Don’t.”

I step back.

Neither of us say a word.

He looks at me again. “Whatever you have to say—”

“Where does one start after all these years, Franco? Do I begin with: how could you have done that to me? Should I ask how you could have all but thrown me out of the hospital? Should I ask how you could forbid me, and then my family, from seeing you, helping you? Should I ask why you never wrote?”

“All those questions were answered nine years ago. All but one question was answered already. I wanted you to leave and never look back.”

“And you thought I would walk away from the man I loved?”

“He died when he betrayed you. He died—”

“To protect me! To avenge his sister’s death!” I step forward now, ignoring the growl meant to warn. I grab his arm, my hand covering the scars on it. “Tell me, Franco, who did this to you? You tell me now so I can lose nearly ten years of my life, our lives, to make them pay for what they have done to you.”

He nods toward the house. “You’ve moved on. You have a family, Valentine. I’ll tell you the same thing I did then. Walk away and never look back.”

“Is that what you intend on doing?” I ask, and he nods. “You intend to walk away from your family and never look back?”

“I have a one-way ticket to my family.”

“So, you’ll walk away from me, from your daughters?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his knees buckle, but he quickly recovers.

“You still deny them when you’ve been face to face with them? Seen your own eyes, your own smile staring back at you?”

He looks up at the sky, averting eye contact with me, and his chest rises and falls rapidly.

When he says nothing, my blood boils for me, but more for them.

With both fists balled, I strike his chest. “You’ll continue to deny the fact you’re a father, Franco?”

When he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t answer, I strike him again harder this time as the burn of tears fills my eyes.

“I waited all my life for what was right before me. I then waited nine more years and three months for you. I have swallowed back the hurt”—again, I strike him, and this time, he encircles my wrists—“the hurt caused by you for not writing me back after I told you I was carrying your child. Then again after I wrote and told you it wasn’t one but two.” I pull my hands back and push them against his chest again. A painful groan escapes him now, but the tears in my eyes shield me from seeing his face. “Two little ladies, Franco. Two damn yous.”

I feel him press his forehead against mine and whimper at the connection, the gesture, the warmth of a man, my love’s skin against mine. Then I feel his lips against the bridge of my nose.

In his kiss, I feel hope and love and family. And I feel like, once again, I will feel that I no longer have to bear the weight of the world on my shoulders alone. I feel like I have my true partner back. The man who knows me better than anyone. I feel the kiss of my mother, my father, my brother. I feel that all I have lost has returned.

When he steps back, I wipe my eyes and look up at him, realizing he didn’t know they were his.

“I wrote you. I sent letters. I sent pictures.”

I stop rambling when he reaches through the car window and pulls out a bag. When he holds it out to me, I take it and open it.

Inside are hundreds of letters, all unopened.

He didn’t know.

I hand him back the bag, and he puts it in the car before turning and looking at me. He takes a deep breath, and I ready myself to hear the words I have longed to hear.

Instead, I hear the door slam behind me and little feet.

I look up at him as his eyes widen when he sees what he knows now are the flesh of his flesh.

“Don’t do this, Valentina.” He pulls his sunglasses down, covering his eyes, unable to mask his emotions.

“We have plenty of time for you to get used to the idea,” I assure him.

“Hey, mister!” Cesca yells as her little feet carry her quickly toward us. “Mamma Joe wants to know if you’re staying for dinner.”

“She’s making sauce, and we’re helping,” Toinette adds.

“Please let her know I appreciate the offer, but I won’t be able to stay.”

They are now beside me. I smile at them as I put a hand on each of their shoulders, comforting them, even though I’m not sure they recognize their own father.

Cesca walks up and hands him a cookie. “They’re delicious.”

“They appear to be so,” he says as he takes it. “Thank you.”

When she smiles at him, I am sure she knows who he is.

“Better with milk,” Toinette tells him.

He nods to her. “I bet they are.”

“You could come inside,” she says, swinging her foot against the driveway and kicking a stone toward him.

“I wish I could, but I have somewhere I need to go. Could you ladies ask Vincent if he’d come out and give me a ride?”

“Sure,” they say together. “Nice to meet you.” Then they turn and walk toward the house.

I don’t stop them. I told him we have time, and we do.

“Do they know about me?” he asks.

I nod my reply.

“They know I killed a man?”

“Francesca and Antoinette …” I pause when he sucks in a sharp breath. “They know their father did what he had to do to ensure our safety.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I hear the door to the house shut.

“They’ll love you so much, Franco.”

His jaw twitches as he works the muscles in them.

“I can imagine this is a lot to process,” I begin.

“You fucking think? You …” He stops then turns his back to me.

I try my best to let all the love I have for him wash away all the anger and the rage building up inside that he didn’t open the letters. That he didn’t even bother to worry about me. Eight years of practice in putting others first, coupled with eight years of dreaming how this situation would one day play out into a beautiful life, allows me to do that.

I swallow back the hurt feelings that could cause this to turn toxic quickly and wrap my arms around him from behind

“You do not do that to a man who has been locked in a cage for over nine years,” he scolds me.

I allow myself to release a bit of selfishness and spit toward him, “You do not tell that to a woman who has loved you enough to stay faithful to you for as long as I have.”

“I told you not to,” he hisses.

“I couldn’t have been with another. I could never be with another.”

I hear the door open and shut from behind again and step back.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Our daughters go to bed at eight o’clock at night. By nine, I am normally done pleading for them to actually go to sleep.”

He glances over his shoulder at me. “I expect you to come and show me why I waited.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warns.

“I certainly do.”

I turn and look at Vincent. “Please take him to a nice dinner. And the man needs some new clothes.”

I don’t look back at him. I simply walk into the house.

Before dinner, I do what most mothers do when they need a break, or should I say, a breakdown. I hide in the bathroom and cry away my anger and frustration.

After dinner, the girls and I walk along our private beach with Aunt Joe, collecting shells. Before she leaves, she hugs me and tells me she loves me, that we will talk tomorrow.

* * *

I lie in bed, knowing that, although our daughters didn’t ask about him, they suspect the man they saw for the first time in their lives is their father. I also suspect it has something to do with coaching from Aunt Joe.

It’s nine o’clock at night when I message Vincent, asking about Franco’s whereabouts. He informs me I should hear from him soon.

At ten o’clock, I walk out onto the balcony and drink my third glass of champagne alone, becoming angry. Again, I reason with myself that he has a huge adjustment to make, being a free man, and another at finding out he is a father.

I walk back into my room and to the bathroom where I look at myself in the mirror, hoping I am still beautiful to him.

I have on a champagne colored robe overtop a black, lacey nightgown. I am waxed, threaded, manicured, and polished. If he doesn’t think so, he is wrong.

I walk back out and into my room, shrugging off my robe before pulling back the champagne colored duvet and climbing into bed. When I look at the clock again, I see it’s ten fifteen p.m.

I close my eyes and try to stop myself from becoming angry. Instead, I remember my recurring dream of the past eight years.

Atop a bed of chocolate silk, I sit up and remove my lacey nighty. Then I lie down, completely naked and spread, waiting for him.

Like my dream, the French doors to the balcony overlooking the ocean are open, a breeze blowing the sheer, champagne colored curtains hanging from them. My nipples peak when the cool, midnight ocean breeze sweeps across my heated and wanton body.

I cup my breasts and tug gently on the diamonds adorning the ends of the piercings, sending a wave of pleasure down my body until it reaches my core. My pussy clenches as I stroke my fingertips down my body and cup myself, applying just enough pressure to intensify my need. I gently rub around my clit, causing more pressure and pleasure to build, to burn, to ready myself.

Sliding a finger into my center, I moan as I curve it up, hitting my sweet spot, while using the other hand to pinch my nipple harder.

Closing my eyes, I continue to build the desire as I wait for him, for real this time.

When I hear footsteps on my balcony, I open my eyes.

Shivers run down my spine when I look into his milk chocolate eyes as they rake down my body.

“Valentina,” he groans in a low, animalistic rasp.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“We have much to discuss.”

“Not now, Franco, not now.”

“Valentina …” he sighs.

“I need you.”

He lowers his head and takes a deep breath. Then he unbuttons his crisp gray shirt, slowly revealing his exquisite body inch by inch to me.

As he steps closer, I gasp and begin to sit up, to touch the parts of him that are changed. The scars that cover his ripped muscles.

“Valentina, no. Not now. I need you, too.”

I lie back and focus on the black ink covers his hard, ripped body, causing more fire to burn deep inside me.

When his shirt falls to the ground, he runs his hand over his thick black hair that reveals more specks of silver near his temples. Just like in my dreams, he aged like the finest of wines made of the grapes grown in the vineyards we once played in as children.

“You waited for me, Valentina?” His voice is husky and oozes with desire, desire for me.

“Of course.” I purr, allowing my legs to fall to the sides, giving him a better look at what I know causes his mouth to water, showing him what he yearns to taste, to touch. Displaying what once was his and still is.

He unhurriedly unbuckles the black belt around his trim waist, letting it hang open as he slowly works his button and zipper with his thick, long fingers. He then pulls his belt out inch by glorious inch, one loop at a time, as he watches me rub my soaked slit.

“Your pussy is more beautiful now than I remember when I tasted it all those years ago.”

He pushes his thumbs slowly under the waistband of his undone slacks, providing me a glimpse of the deep-cut muscles that form a V.

I lick my lips, wetting them, preparing them for him.

My love.

He pushes his slacks down slightly, just enough to tease and torment me, exposing the thick root of his cock.

Yes, my insides clench.

I watch him push his pants farther down.

He is beautiful.

His cock is growing thicker before my eyes.

He pushes his slacks farther down.

I know his cock like it is a part of me. I know how much is still covered.

He pushes his pants down fully now and stands up.

I remember how his cock doesn’t stand erect. It can’t. His thick, heavy cock hangs between his legs perfectly, resting against tight, large, magnificent balls.

I inhale the salty scent of the sea air, willing him closer so I can smell his manly scent over it.

He grips his cock, swiping his thumb across the broad head. Then he lifts it up and rubs his forefinger against his thumb, spreading the pre-cum between them as he walks closer to me.

He grabs my ankles, pulling my legs farther apart as he kneels between my legs, dips his head, and inhales deeply.

“Fuck, I’ve missed your cunt.”

A quivering moan escapes me as he buries his face between my legs and I come immediately.

“Your pussy is soaked. Your desire is beading up on that beautiful fucking skin. I need to taste you.” His voice is thick, full of need and desire.

He stands then ducks his head, taking one of my breasts in his hand. “What’s this?” he asks, tugging gently on my piercing.

“Jewelry,” I moan out.

He leans in and takes the other in his mouth, sucking, pulling, pinching, and licking on . I nearly fall apart again. Then he reaches between my legs while popping my breast out of mouth.

“So fucking wet.”

“Yes,” I whimper. “God, yes.”