Young-Love

CHAPTER 3: MALIK'S POV

“She’s not mine.”

Yeah, you heard me right—Bella... ain't my daughter.

You ever try to unlove a child? Not because of what she did. Not because of who she is—but because every time you look at her, something in your blood screams: She doesn’t belong to you.

It’s a curse, man. A silent goddam curse.

And what makes it worse? I wanted her. I prayed for her.

Back then, when Tess—sorry meant to say Contessa, Tess was the woman I fell in love with, Contessa is the devil she became.

Anyway Contessa and I walked into that hospital and saw the scan... I swear, I damn near cried in front of the doctor. A girl. A baby girl.

A daughter to spoil. A daughter to protect. My little princess.

I already had my boys—Giancarlo, wild but brilliant, and Nico, the enforcer with a soft and sour heart. They were gonna inherit the business, take over the streets and sit at the table with their cousins when I retire. But the girl? The girl was supposed to be different.

She was supposed to be mine. An unbreakable daddy-daughter relationship that would have everyone jealous—literally my four brothers would envy me.

Contessa squeezed my hand so tight that day, I thought we were dreaming together. I kissed her forehead and told her, “She's gonna have your eyes.” Those soft blue ocean eyes. I thought it’d be perfect.

Even Pops himself—smiled. That man doesn’t smile unless someone dies or profits triple.

“This here,” he said, arms folded in that old kingpin stance, “is bigger than blood. This is legacy.”

He meant it. A girl born to the Lovereigns and the Vitales? That wasn’t just family—it was politics. Trade. Peace.

The Five Families had warred with the Italians for decades. Old grudges. Long bodies. Blood soaking Staten Island to Sicily. But a child—our child—could change that.

The Italians hadn’t had a mafia princess in generations. Contessa was the only one so far. A baby girl would mean a new Mafia princess according to their lineage—some s**t like that, I don’t get it too.

And the Five Families? Full of men, testosterone, guns and scars. But no daughters, none of my brothers had a daughter. No soft symbol of peace. Bella was meant to be the first.

Contessa’s father, Don Aurelio, sent us wine the day the ultrasound confirmed it. “To the girl who will silence the bullets,” the card read. I’ve kept it for years.

I built her a nursery that cost more than some people’s houses. Painted stars on her ceiling. Bought a chandelier shaped like a carousel. I ordered her first pair of shoes from Milan, diamond encrusted baby slippers—don’t ask how much they cost. Told the tailors, “Only the best. This girl’s the future.”

For remaining months, I held Contessa at night and dreamed of this kid. I would imagine me, a gangster from Queens, holding tea parties and carrying a diaper bag with a pistol tucked inside. I didn’t care. This is what I wanted—I wanted her. I was ready.

###

They say fathers remember the day their daughters are born like it’s tattooed on their soul.

I remember it too.

Just not the way I should.

I was stuck in Midtown. Heat of summer, traffic thick as blood, tied up in a sit-down with one of the Colombian crews trying to renegotiate our port shipments. The meeting ran long—too long. I didn’t even know Contessa had gone into labour. Her calls never came through. My phone was blowing up, but I was too focused on business to check it.

Pops rang the line directly. I picked up, already annoyed.

“Son... it’s happening.”

Everything else fell away.

I left the table mid-sentence. My crew knew better than to question it. I jumped into the blacked-out Benz and told Frank to drive like hell. We swerved through traffic, blew red lights. I was half out the window, yelling at taxis. Every second felt like I was losing something.

By the time I reached the hospital, it was too late.

Bella had already been born.

I ran through the hallway, suited in all black, sweat slick on my forehead, heart pounding like I was the one giving birth. A nurse recognized me. Didn’t ask for ID. Just pointed down the corridor with shaky hands.

“She’s in Room 214, Mr. Lovereign.”

I walked in, expecting music, light, that movie moment where everything in the world stops for your child.

What I saw was Contessa, glowing, her eyes full of love and exhaustion... holding a baby girl swaddled in soft pink.

“She’s perfect,” Contessa whispered. “Come meet your daughter.”

My chest tightened. I walked over, slow, every inch of me buzzing. She held the baby out to me, gently placing her in my arms. For a second, I felt it—the dream, the idea of this little girl being mine.

Then I looked down.

She was beautiful, no doubt. But what the f**k, she looked nothing like me.

Brown skin—lighter than mine, but off-tone. Brown hair, fairer than expected. Eyes—not ocean blue like Contessa’s like I had always imagined. Not dark like mine. No. They were freaking brown.

And then she cried.

Loud. Piercing. Unfamiliar. I remember Giancarlo and Nico's cry, this—this here was so different.

Something in me recoiled. Like someone had thrown cold water on my chest.

I blinked, stunned. My arms stiffened. The joy started leaking from me like a slow puncture. I handed her back.

Contessa looked confused. “Malik? What’s wrong?”

I forced a tight smile. “I... I don’t know how to calm a crying baby.”

Then I turned and walked out of the room without another word.

Down the hallway. Past the nurses. Out the sliding glass doors and into the blazing summer sun.

I stood in the shadows near the ambulance bay and cried. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears sliding down my cheeks. The kind of crying that only comes when you feel something’s been stolen from you and you’re the only one who knows.

That’s where Pops found me towering even in the dark, walked up and stood beside me like a statue.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and said it before I could stop myself.

“Contessa cheated on me.”

He didn’t react.

Didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. Just stared out into the empty parking lot like he was reading the future.

“You sure?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But she don’t look like me, Pop. Not at all. She don’t even feel like mine.”

He was quiet a for long time.

Then he said, “Blood don’t lie. But it don’t always speak up right away either. Time will tell, give it a rest for now son.”

He walked back inside, left me there with my hands in my pockets and a war starting in my chest.

And that was the first night I questioned everything.

The first time I thought, what if the girl I prayed for… ain’t mine at all?

###

People say love grows.

That if you give it time, even resentment can soften into care. That a child, no matter whose blood they carry, will carve out space in your heart.

That’s a goddamn lie.

Bella turned six the year everything finally snapped.

It was spring. I remember because the garden was full of white lilies Contessa insisted on planting with her own hands. There was this family brunch happening on the lawn—just us and the boys. I was trying to focus on some trade route proposals Pops wanted reviewed. Business never stops.

Bella came skipping over to me, clutching something in her tiny hands.

“Daddy!” she called.

I looked up.

She was smiling ear to ear, her curls bouncing, a piece of crayon-coloured paper in her fist.

“I made this for you!”

I took the paper, more out of reflex than interest. It was a stick-figure drawing—me, her, Contessa, Giancarlo, and Nico. She’d labelled us all with crooked letters. Above it, she’d written: MY FAMILY. I LOVE MY DAD.

I felt something twist in my gut.

Because that word—“Dad”—coming from her mouth felt like poison.

“Isn’t it cute?” Contessa said from behind, already sensing my tension.

I looked at the drawing. Then at her.

Then I crushed it in my fist and tossed it into the trash bin beside the table.

Bella froze. Her face broke. Her little hands trembled.

She didn’t say a word. Just ran to Contessa and burst into tears.

“Malik!” Contessa hissed, grabbing the paper and smoothing it out like she could erase what I’d done. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

I didn’t answer. I just stood there, breathing hard, unable to speak over the storm inside me.

Later that night, she cornered me in our bedroom.

“I’m sick of watching you treat her like she’s some ghost in this house,” she snapped. “That’s your daughter!”

“No,” I said.

It was the first time I’d said it out loud. The first time the truth came unchained from my chest.

“She’s not mine. You think I don’t see it? I’ve known for years. I got the test done—twice. Twice. No match.”

Contessa’s face went pale. Her voice shook, but her words were razor-sharp.

“You did a DNA test on our daughter without telling me?”

“Correction your daughter—You lied first,” I growled. “I had a right to know if I was raising another man’s child.”

Contessa stepped forward, fire behind her eyes.

“You think this is about you, Malik? You think this is just family drama? That girl is the only thing standing between peace and total war. If you speak a word of this, if you breathe this secret into the wrong ear—my father will burn your empire to ash. And so will yours.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“Not really,” she said calmly. “I’m protecting what we’ve built. You want the Five Families to survive? You want Mansa’s name to stay off a bullet? Then you’ll play your role—and you’ll play it well.”

That night, we didn’t sleep in the same bed.

That was eight years ago.

Since then, I’ve worn this mask. I’ve walked the line between loyalty and bitterness. I’ve sat at tables beside men who would kill their own brothers for less, pretending that the girl beside me is my blood.

But she isn’t.

She’s spoiled. Soft. Too clever for her own good. Always watching, always waiting to be loved. And every time she smiles at me, I feel like I’m choking.

I don’t talk much anymore. Rarely to the boys. Sometimes to pops and my brothers. Barely even to Contessa. Never to Bella coz what’s the point?

I gave up the truth to keep the peace.

But the price?

It’s her—she's a little devil that I'm gonna get rid of very soon.

Making my life fuckin' miserable.

But the question I’ve dared never to ask is why did Contessa cheat on me?