Chapter 8 - Strawberry Ice Cream
The corner ice cream parlor on Madison Avenue was bright, warm, and smelled sweetly of waffle cones, melted chocolate, and vanilla bean.
At a small round table near the front window sat Aleandro Moretti and Sophia Alvarez. Maria sat at the table next to them, sipping a cup of black coffee while watching her daughter with a soft, bewildered smile that still held traces of awe.
Before Sophia sat a massive, overflowing waffle cone dripping with three enormous scoops of bright pink strawberry ice cream, topped with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles.
Sophia stared at it as if it were the eighth wonder of the ancient world.
“You can eat it,” Aleandro said gently, watching her with a curious expression. “Just... try not to get it on the yellow dress. Your mother might kill me.”
Maria let out a quiet, genuine laugh—a sound so foreign in Aleandro’s world that it made him turn his head. “Mr. Moretti, after what you handled today, I think a stained dress is the least of your worries.”
Sophia took her first bite, her eyes widening in absolute ecstasy as strawberry ice cream smeared across the tip of her nose. She giggled, kicking her legs back and forth against the legs of the chrome chair.
“It’s the best day ever,” Sophia declared around a mouthful of ice cream.
Aleandro sat back in his chair, his large hands resting on the table. He hadn't ordered anything for himself, content simply to watch her.
“You know,” Sophia said, pausing and looking up at him with her big, honest eyes, “you’re really good at being a daddy.”
The entire parlor seemed to go quiet for a fraction of a second.
Aleandro’s chest tightened. A complex wave of emotions—memories of his own distant past, the brutal reality of his present empire, and a strange, aching longing he had spent a lifetime burying—collided behind his ribs.
“I’m just visiting for the day, Sophia,” Aleandro said softly, his voice unusually gentle. “Remember? Just one day.”
Sophia frowned, tilting her head. “Can you borrow tomorrow too?”
Before Aleandro could answer, the bell above the parlor door chimed.
Marco Ricci stepped inside, his expression completely neutral, though his eyes scanned the room with practiced efficiency before locking onto Aleandro. Marco walked over and leaned down, whispering quietly into Aleandro’s ear.
“The New York harbor delegates are waiting at the downtown office,” Marco reported in a low murmur. “And Frank Solanzio called my burner phone five minutes ago. He wants to meet face-to-face tonight to negotiate a permanent truce.”
Aleandro looked down at Sophia, who was happily attacking her second scoop of ice cream, completely unaware of the empire waiting outside for its master to return.
Aleandro slowly stood up from the table. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp, black leather cardholder, and placed a hundred-dollar bill neatly on the wooden surface beside Sophia’s cone.
“Keep the change,” Aleandro told the young clerk behind the counter, who was staring at him with wide, intimidated eyes.
Aleandro looked down at Sophia one last time. He reached out, his large, calloused thumb gently wiping a smear of strawberry ice cream from the tip of her nose.
“Thank you for borrowing me today, Sophia,” Aleandro said quietly.
May you like
Sophia beamed up at him. “Will you come back?”
Aleandro did not make a promise he couldn't keep. Instead, he gave her a slow, profound nod, turned on his heel, and walked out the door into the crisp Manhattan afternoon, with Marco falling seamlessly into step beside him.
