Entangled with the Mafia Don novel Chapter 18

Davina's POV:

Nathan was already seated at a small, sun-drenched table near the large front window of the bustling L.A. coffee shop, his gaze fixed intently on the entrance, a palpable mixture of relief and anxiety etched onto his familiar features. The rich aroma of strong coffee beans, mingling with the sweet scent of freshly baked pastries and the low hum of local chatter, filled the air. As I walked through the doorway, he stood up quickly, a hesitant, hopeful smile gracing his lips. He looked thinner than I remembered, his eye looked bruised still, a shadow of worry lingering around his eyes.

"Davina," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of relief that tugged unexpectedly at my frayed nerves. He pulled out the other wrought-iron chair, its intricate design slightly rusted from the sea air, and I sat down, feeling the immense weight of the past week pressing down on me, a tangible burden in the otherwise cheerful atmosphere. The normalcy of the cafe, the casual conversations swirling around us, the clinking of ceramic mugs, felt utterly surreal, a stark and painful contrast to the dark, dangerous world I was now forced to inhabit.

We hadn't exchanged more than a few strained, awkward sentences, the recent events casting an unspoken tension hanging heavy between us, when a familiar figure approached our table, his presence casting a long, unwelcome shadow. My blood ran cold, a sudden chill. It was him. My father, our father, Malcolm. His face still bore the faint, yellowish-purple bruises around his eyes, a lingering testament to the brutal beating, and his usual bluster was replaced by a nervous, almost pleading demeanor.

"Davina," he said, his voice raspy and uneven, his eyes filled with a desperate, almost pathetic sincerity I hadn't witnessed in years.

My carefully constructed composure, the fragile wall I had built around my raw emotions, crumbled instantly. "What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice rising sharply above the cafe's gentle murmur, the anger bubbling to the surface, hot and volatile. "How dare you show up here after everything you did to me!? I don't want anything to do with you." I stood up abruptly, the scraping of the chair against the tiled floor echoing my inner turmoil, ready to bolt and escape his unwanted presence once more.

"Please, Davina," he begged, his hand reaching out towards me, his fingers trembling slightly. "Just... just let me explain. I know I messed things up, terribly. But please, just hear me out."

I hesitated, caught between the overwhelming urge to run and a tiny, reluctant sliver of morbid curiosity, a desperate need to understand the tangled web that had ensnared us all. Nathan looked from my agitated form to our father's pleading face, his expression a bewildered mixture of confusion and deep concern. His hand reached mine, signalling me to sit. With a heavy sigh, I sank back into the chair, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, a defensive barrier against the pain and anger churning within me, my gaze fixed stubbornly on the bustling street outside, refusing to meet my father's eyes.

He took a shaky, unsteady breath, his own eyes filled with a desperate sincerity I hadn't seen since childhood. "It started a long time ago, Davina. Years ago, when I still married to your mother. The gambling... it started small, a bit of fun. Having fun with friends. It was never supposed to cause any issues, but it spiraled out of control. Your mother knew nothing about it, she thought I was having an affair." he said before my eyes snapped on him.

"She thought you had an affair? More like had an affair with you beloved Federica, and if memory serves right, had a son, while still being married to my mother.'' I said spit each word with all the resentment and hatred I had for that woman. My stepmother. Nathan's posture swifted as my words hit deep. Malcolm tried to reach my shaking hand, but the moment he saw the anger in my eyes, he retreated.

"When you showed up at the hospital..." His voice was barely a whisper, choked with emotion. "I was shocked, Davina. Terrified. I didn't call you. I swear to God, I didn't want you involved in any of this. I wanted you to stay away, to be safe, to have the life you deserved."

His words hung in the air, a tangled, desperate mess of regret, fear, and a twisted kind of paternal concern. Part of me, a small, naive part that still clung to the memory of the father who used to read me bedtime stories, wanted to believe him, to understand the crushing fear that had driven his cruelty and his silence. But the years of abandonment, the brutal rejection at the hospital, the terrifying reality of Ezra's control... it was all too much, too overwhelming to process in the sterile environment of the bustling cafe.

I stood up again, my hands shaking visibly. "I don't care, Dad. I don't care about your gambling debts or your twisted deals with criminals. You pushed me away. You let me believe you didn't want me in your life for thirteen years." My voice was thick with unshed tears, the dam of my carefully suppressed pain threatening to break. "Well, guess what? I'm involved now. And I'm going to handle it. You just stay out of my way. You've done enough damage."

Without waiting for a response, without even glancing at Nathan, I turned and walked away, the clatter of my sandals on the tiled floor echoing the turmoil within me, leaving them both sitting at the small table, the heavy weight of their long-held secrets and my newfound, desperate determination hanging heavy in the warm L.A air. I didn't know exactly what "handling it" meant yet, but one thing was terrifyingly clear: I wasn't going to let Ezra control me, or my family, any longer.