Chapter 9
9
I’m standing in a mob prince’s kitchen as he glares at me.
This morning, when I woke up, I learned that falling asleep next to Damien is synonymous with waking up alone.
In need of water, I left the bedroom on a hunt for the kitchen. I found it, along with the cutest kid, Amara, and her grandmother. They stopped mid-conversation about magical ponies to stare at me in confusion.
Not that I blamed them. I am some rando, standing in the kitchen.
Unsure of what to do, I introduced myself as Damien’s friend.
Which isn’t a lie. I’m Damien’s something .
Debt dance giver? Fuck friend?
We need to talk about that.
Establish something.
After I tell them that, Amara becomes completely at ease with me, even offering for me to babysit her pet goldfish. Clara is nice, but I don’t miss the untrusting glances she makes with her every move around the kitchen. I’m waiting for her to shove a knife in her back pocket, just in case I get frisky .
But I must not give off too many crazy vibes. She didn’t scream for Antonio.
“Daddy!” Amara squeals, dancing in her stool while sitting at the island.
Antonio and Damien stand in a massive doorway wide enough to fit both their bodies. They’re dressed in black suits and both wearing humorless expressions as if it’s part of their dress code.
Antonio hasn’t formally introduced himself, but I recognize him from the blog post. His lean body is so tense that you’d think it’s molded from stone, and his nostrils flare as he stares me down. All the tension in his face dissolves when his gaze slips from me to Amara.
As he stares at his daughter, I move my attention to Damien. His eyes are locked on me, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Uncle Damien!” Amara slides off her stool, wearing pink dinosaur pajamas, and dashes over to him, hugging his legs. She’s either not catching on to the serious mood change or just used to these men’s stony demeanors. “I met your friend!” She turns to point at me and jumps up and down.
Damien squeezes her shoulders and half smiles down at her. “I see that.”
What’s with the sudden coldness?
Antonio kneels to face Amara and runs his hand along her cheek. “Time to get ready for school.”
You can tell he keeps what little gentleness he can summon bottled up for his daughter.
“But my school is here.” Amara frowns in confusion. “I never get ready for it.”
“How about you get out of your pajamas and get dressed?” Antonio suggests, kissing the top of her hair. “Later, when I get home, we’ll go out for ice cream, okay?”
Her face brightens. “Okay! ”
“Oh, yes,” Clara says, circling around the island and walking toward them. “Let’s get you dressed, sweetheart.”
Amara turns and waves at me. “Bye-bye, Pippa!”
I smile and return the wave.
Clara escorts her out of the kitchen, and as soon as they’re out of earshot, Antonio glares at me.
“You need to leave my house,” he snaps before shifting his glare to Damien. “Ten minutes, and I want her gone.”
Damien nods before locking eyes with me and jerking his head toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Antonio retreats a few steps as if wanting to provide me with plenty of room to pass him. As soon as I’m at Damien’s side, he turns and retreats down the hallway. The echo of his shoes hitting the marble flooring is the only sound around us.
“I take it that’s Antonio?” I ask Damien.
He nods. “That’s Antonio.”
“The big, scary boss of the Lombardi family?”
“No, that’d be his father.”
I cross my arms, now feeling brave that Antonio is out of sight. “Yeah, well, he acted like a complete”—I pause, leaning in closer and inhaling Damien’s cologne, and lower my voice—“ass.”
“He doesn’t trust people around his daughter,” Damien says simply. “Don’t take it personal. He doesn’t even allow his parents to visit Amara here.”
I chew on the edge of my lip, grasping the weight of Damien’s words. He brought me into Antonio’s sacred place, the place he keeps his daughter safe. And if the rumors I’ve heard about their world are true, I understand his anger.
I don’t know much about Damien’s relationship with Antonio, but I have a list of questions I’m mentally adding in my brain.
That doesn’t mean Damien will answer them all.
Or any, really .
He seems to be well-rehearsed in the need-to-know-basis language.
Our drive back to my apartment is quiet.
I had this man’s cock in my mouth less than twelve hours ago, and now, I can’t even ask important questions with said mouth. I mean, he does have a huge dick. Maybe it pushed down my ability to ask crucial questions.
Last night, I didn’t ask questions either. Helping him get his hurt off his mind was my intention. I saw this broken man, battered and bruised, and wanted to make him feel better.
It wasn’t the time to ask questions. But with the delicate situation, I’m unsure if there’ll ever be a right time. I hardly know Damien. What makes me think he’ll even confide in me?
I’m a stranger.
A girl with a shady father.
There must be some trust if he brought me to Antonio’s. From the look they exchanged in the kitchen, it was clear Damien knew he was crossing a line. But it was also clear that Antonio wouldn’t punish him for it.
I glance out the window, people-watching as we pass them. “Are you and Antonio close?”
“We’ve been close friends since childhood. He’s my boss, and I’m also Amara’s godfather.”
“When you say boss , do you mean boss at the casino or boss in another line of work?”
He stares straight ahead, curling his hand tight around the steering wheel. “He’s my boss.”
Alllll riiiighty .
The silence reemerges for the rest of the ride.
“Do you want to come up?” I ask when he parks .
He grabs his key fob from the cupholder and exits the SUV. I open the door, but before I step out, he appears at my side and helps me.
As we walk toward my building, he runs his hand along my shoulders. It’s a simple touch but lights my body on fire. We’re quiet as we climb the stairs.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask when we’re inside my apartment.
I’ve swallowed this man’s cum, but I don’t even know his drink preferences.
Pippa the dancing slut over here .
But Damien doesn’t make me feel shame for that.
Somehow, someway, I feel comfortable with every line I’ve crossed with him.
“I’m good.” He loosens his cuff links while I trail him into the living room.
“Let me change out of these clothes really quick.” I go to my bedroom to swap my tank and shorts for a loose summer dress.
Damien is in the living room, taking in the space while I sit on the couch.
He slowly does the same.
Has this man ever allowed anyone to get close to him?
More-than-sex close?
I shift to face him and cross my legs. “I’m sorry about your family, Damien.” My heart aches at what little information he told me. I can’t imagine the pain sweeping through him.
His face is blank, and he doesn’t say a word.
When I reach out to take his hand, he tenses, causing me to immediately jerk back. He winces as our eyes meet, a wild storm in his. My breathing catches when he grabs my hand and envelops it with his.
I scoot in closer. “What happened?”
His eyes don’t meet mine, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he speaks. “A casino competitor blew up my parents’ house, killing them, along with my sister and grandparents.”
I gasp, covering my mouth with my free hand, and instantly regret my dramatic response. Damien doesn’t need theatrics. He needs comfort.
When he came over two nights ago, it wasn’t for sympathy. There was so much sadness and pain on his face that it was almost hard to look at. But it was nothing compared to the fury that started to take over his expression.
People grieve in many ways.
Some cry, displaying their sadness.
Others throw themselves in work, projects, anything to get their mind off their grief.
But men like Damien?
Violence is their coping mechanism.
I release my hold from his and crawl onto his lap. “Damien, I’m so sorry.”
He opens his arms, allowing me to get comfortable, and grips my waist. My chest rises and falls as I slowly drop a kiss on his mouth. He rolls his tongue between his lips before sliding it along mine. I open for him, allowing it to slip into my mouth.
Our kiss doesn’t last long until he rears his head back, cups the back of my head, and shoves his face into my neck. His breathing is heavy along my exposed neck before he starts raining slow kisses over my skin.
He flexes his hips upward, and I shut my eyes when he squeezes my waist before gliding me until I’m grinding against his growing erection.
As he sets a slow pace, I unbutton his shirt and slide it off his shoulders. He roams his fingers under my dress and up my thighs. I continue the pace he set for me.
But just like last time we were on this couch, I want more of him .
I lower my hands to his lap, cupping the outline of his dick, and unbuckle his belt. I freeze when he stops me.
Our eyes lock as he keeps us in place.
“I will kill those men,” he flat-out tells me, no bullshit. “Before you ride my cock, I want you to know who I am, who you’re getting involved with.” He removes his hand from mine on his lap and uses it to cradle my face. “Tell me, my sweet dancer, are you okay with giving yourself to a demented soul like me?”