Staring at Romeo DeLuna, Helena DeLuna, maiden name Messina, glared at the man in hate. Not because he did anything to her personally, it was his existence that threatened what she was owed. It always had.
“You’re going to go and see a son, you don’t even know and for what? To lie to me and say it’s about him when in reality you want to go and see his mother don’t you? You heard she’s marrying that Irish mogul and want to interfere? You make me sick.” Her berating making Leonardo falter in his desire to spend his son’s nineteenth birthday with him, the man had kept the distance there.
He never mentioned spending time or trying to go see his eldest son ever again in her presence. And when he tried to sneak and do so? She’d “catch” him, guilt him, and then pull away. Making him seek out
