Chapter 2
The Long Game
William
I hit replay for the thirteenth time, and I'm not even ashamed anymore.
"Three men, one woman, their hands everywhere as she—"
That fucking moan. Christ. The way her throat moved when she swallowed.
The little catch in her breath right before she made that sound.
I'm fifty-four years old, I've built a media empire worth billions, I've had women throw themselves at me for decades—beautiful women, accomplished women, women who knew exactly what they wanted and how to get it.
And yet, I'm sitting here at two AM replaying a grainy livestream of a twenty-four-year-old virgin reading smut while making frosting.
My cock is so hard it hurts.
"Pathetic," I mutter to myself, but I hit replay anyway. Fourteen times now.
My office is a disaster. Six months of careful preparation scattered across mahogany that cost more than most people's cars. First editions of every book she's touched—sixty-three and counting. Each one signed when possible, annotated with my observations in precise handwriting.
Page 247: She cried here. Real tears. Had to stop and get tissues.
Chapter 14: Bit her lip for thirty seconds straight during this scene. Left side, hard enough to leave marks that lasted through closing.
Page 189: Had to take a break to fan herself. Used a spatula. Looked around guiltily like someone might catch her.
Chapter 31: Pressed her thighs together so hard she nearly fell off the stool.
Is it obsessive? Much. But I haven't built an empire by doing things halfway.
The surveillance schedules are pinned to my corkboard like a military operation.
Jake's fire department rotations in red ink—he's managed to trade enough shifts that he's there every Tuesday and Thursday, plus random Saturdays.
Marcus's restaurant hours in blue—he closes early on the nights she works late, just to watch.
My own meetings in black, carefully orchestrated around her schedule.
Board meetings missed. Billion-dollar deals postponed.
All done so one of us is always watching. Always there if something happens.
Because Rosalie Moretti didn't just leave her granddaughter a bakery. She left her a fucking criminal empire built on blood and buttercream, and a target on her back the size of Maryland.
My phone buzzes. Group chat.
Marcus:
You're watching it again, aren't you?
Jake:
Of course he is. Probably taking notes.
I glance at my laptop where I've actually been transcribing her words, analyzing the books she chooses, the patterns in her reading preferences. There's a spreadsheet. Color-coded. With subfolders for different tropes and heat levels. They don't need to know that.
Planning tomorrow's approach. This needs to be handled delicately.
Marcus:
Delicately? You sent her first editions worth four thousand dollars. After stalking her for three months.
Jake:
Don't forget the part where he had us install additional cameras. "For better angles," he said. "For security," he said.
We all agreed to the surveillance for her protection.
Jake:
Right. Protection.
I look at her college graduation photo framed on my desk.
Silver frame, positioned so I see it every time I glance up from my computer.
Celeste in her cap and gown, holding her diploma, completely alone.
No family cheering. No friends waiting. No proud parents taking a thousand photos.
Just her and that lost look that hits me right in the chest every time I see it.
The same look I had in every photo from sixteen onward. After Father chose a merger over my life. After I spent sixteen days in a warehouse, tied to a chair, waiting for a ransom that almost didn't come because the kidnapping interfered with a crucial board meeting.
She has that same hollow victory in her eyes. The kind that says: I achieved everything I was supposed to, so why do I still feel empty?
Her grandmother asked us to watch over her.
Marcus:
She asked us to protect her. Not develop a collective obsession.
Jake:
Speak for yourself. I'm perfectly comfortable with my obsession.
Marcus:
You rearranged your entire life around her bakery schedule.
Jake:
Says the man who's been recreating every recipe she makes.
Marcus:
That's research.
Jake:
That's obsession.
Gentlemen.
They're not wrong though. We crossed the line from protection to obsession about two months ago.
The first time I watched her dance alone in the bakery, sugar dusting her dark hair like edible glitter, I knew I was fucked.
She was wearing these ridiculous fuzzy socks, sliding across the floor, using a whisk as a microphone.
Completely uninhibited. Free in a way I haven't been since I was sixteen.
Before.
Marcus:
We need rules. Boundaries.
Agreed. She chooses.
Jake:
Or none of us get her.
Marcus:
All three or nothing.
Agreed.
The same stupid competition followed by the same illogical agreement has been repeating itself for the last six weeks, when we realized we were all watching the monitors a little too closely.
When Jake admitted he'd rearranged his entire schedule to maximize his surveillance shifts, turning down overtime and promotion opportunities.
When Marcus confessed he'd been testing recipes based on what she baked, trying to understand her through flour and sugar, through the way she measures vanilla extract straight from the bottle instead of using spoons like a normal person.
When I showed them the first editions and instead of calling me insane, they asked if I'd found the limited release of "Captive Hearts" yet.
Three dangerous men brought to their knees by a virgin baker who reads filthy books and moans about frosting.
Rosalie would be laughing her ass off if she could see us now.
Hell, she probably did see it. That manipulative old woman had a gift for reading people, for knowing things before they happened.
Maybe that's why she chose us specifically.
Not just for our connections or our skills, but because she knew.
Knew we'd fall for her granddaughter. Knew we'd protect her with our lives.
And her knowledge probably went so far as to know that we'd want her with the kind of hunger that makes men stupid and reckless and desperate.
Jake:
She responded to the invitation.
Marcus:
She'll run when she sees us all together.
No. She won't.
I pull up another file—her browsing history from the bakery's WiFi. (Yes, I'm that far gone. No, I don't care anymore.) The titles tell a story:
"Shared by the Mafia" "Three Kings, One Queen" "The Bratva's Baby" "Claimed by the Pack" "Theirs to Take" "Broken by the Billionaires"
She doesn't want Prince Charming riding in on a white horse. She wants the whole fucking villain roster in black SUVs.
Jake:
You seem sure.
I am.
I don't tell them about the other things I've noticed.
How she always picks books where the heroine is innocent but curious, inexperienced but eager.
Where the men are older, dangerous, morally gray at best and complete psychopaths at worst. Where the power dynamic is tipped but consensual.
Where love is obsessive, all-consuming, permanent.
The kind that brands itself into your bones and never lets go.
She's been writing her own want-ad in every book choice, and we're the answer to a prayer she doesn't even know she's been making.
My laptop pings. An encrypted file from one of my sources.
More intel on the Chicago Outfit's interest in Rosalie's empire.
They've been sniffing around, asking questions about the old woman's operations.
The Torrino family especially. They don't know about Celeste yet—we've kept her existence carefully hidden—but it's only a matter of time.
Eventually someone will connect the dots between the sweet bakery owner and the criminal empire worth millions.
Another reason we had to make contact now. Better she hears it from us than wakes up to a midnight visit from men who won't give her a choice.
I start typing a message to her, then delete it.
Type again. Delete.
You're safe now.
Delete. Too paternal.
We won't let anyone hurt you.
Delete. Too ominous.
I've been watching you for six months and I'm completely fucked for you.
Definitely delete. True, but still.
You look beautiful when you're lost in a book.
Delete. Too creepy.
I want to be the reason you make those sounds.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. The gray at my temples that women seem to find distinguished but really just reminds me I'm thirty years older than her. Old enough to know better. Old enough to be her father, technically, if I'd been a very precocious teenager.
I've negotiated with presidents. Brought down entire corporations with a single headline. Made grown men cry in boardrooms. Destroyed careers with a phone call. Built an empire on information and intimidation.
But I can't send a simple text to a woman young enough to be my... No, not going there... without sounding like either a creep or an idiot.
Before I can second-guess myself, I close the laptop and stare at her photo again.
Those hazel eyes that go gold when she's aroused—yes, I've studied the surveillance footage that closely.
Frame by frame sometimes, when she's really into a scene.
The way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating, always the left side, always hard enough to leave little crescent marks.
How she unconsciously arches her back during the steamy scenes, like her body is begging for something she's never had.
Six months ago, I thought this would be simple. Honor a dying woman's request. Keep an eye on her granddaughter. Transfer the inheritance when the time was right. Clean and professional.
Then I watched her the first time. Really watched her.