"Maybe it does," he shrugs.
He's thinking about how he's like his mother even though he was raised by his father. Maybe he's right, maybe if we had a son, he'd turn out like his father but that doesn't mean his daughter wouldn't. Or maybe he thinks the daughter would have a lesser chance of being like him because of me. I'm too tired to ask him to explain.
"Liyana, I'd name her Liyana," he suddenly answers the question.
"And if it were a boy?" I ask, out of curiosity.
"Dante," he answers.
"Any particular reasons for the names?"
He shrugs, brushing off the question.
It brings me a small bit of comfort knowing that he's thought of this. He cares, even if it's not for me, he cares for the child because his father was a good role model as a parent—or as good of a role model as he can be for a man overseeing a large criminal organization.
"Alejandro," I whisper.
"Hm?"
