4. Dom
Dom
My eyelids are heavy, coated in sleep, making them difficult to open. Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling. My arm is numb. Pins and needles shoot through the dead limb as Amara’s head rests against my arm, her dark hair spilling across my shoulder.
The morning sun streams through the window, and waves crash against the shore outside, their rhythm matching her soft breaths.
Her leg is draped over mine, her knee pressing against my groin. My cock throbs, causing shame to flood through me. I’m glad I’m still wearing my shirt and pants, but I still need to get out of here.
Now.
I slip my arm free, careful not to wake her. She mumbles something, curling into the warm spot I’ve left behind as slide off the bed. My mouth dried at the sight of her in that tiny silk nightgown.
Christ. She’s my stepdaughter. She also recently turned eighteen.
I stumble to my bedroom and into my bathroom, turning the shower on full blast.
The water’s too hot when I step inside, but I welcome the sting.
My hand wraps around my cock, and I pump, angry with myself because all I can see when I close my eyes is Amara. I slap my free hand on the tiled wall, stroking fast and harder, needing this over.
Finally, I come.
I pant as I watch my cum mix with shower water and disappear down the drain.
Fuck!
I grab a towel and dry myself off, still disgusted with myself.
Back in my bedroom, I grab my phone and make a call.
“Caleb.” My voice is gruff. “Why did Amara come home last night? I thought she was staying at yours.”
“No idea?” He sounds confused. “Poppy said she left early. Less than an hour after getting there. She sent Poppy a text to tell her she was home safe, so I left it.”
Something’s not right. “Golf tomorrow?”
“Eight work for you?”
“Perfect.” I need to clear my head, figure out what the hell is going on with Amara. And why she was so terrified last night that she wanted her passport?
Half an hour later and I plate up the French toast, drizzling maple syrup and adding strawberries because I know Amara loves them. The kitchen is filled with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon.
“Oh my God, that smells perfect.” She perches on a stool at the breakfast bar, hair still damp from her shower, wearing tiny denim shorts and a white tank top.
I push the plate toward her. “It’s for you.”
Her smile alone is worth getting up early every day to make her breakfast and get a smile like that in return. “Thanks for this and for last night.” She cuts into the toast. “For staying.”
“Until you finally passed out.” I pour coffee into my mug. “Took you long enough.”
Her lips curve up. “I was waiting for you to go to sleep first.”
I grin. “I know. I was pretending.”
Our eyes lock, just before she bursts out laughing.
I laugh with her, then we both stop at the same time. Staring at each other as the air crackles between us, and I grip my mug tighter.
She breaks first, looking down at her plate.
“Do you still want your passport?” I ask her.
“Yeah. Please.” She pushes a piece of toast around. “This life is dangerous.”
“No one will hurt you.” I lean forward, resting my finger under her chin and forcing her to meet my gaze. “Ever.”
“How can you be sure?” She picks up her glass and takes a sip of orange juice. “What about the other families? People who you’ve upset. I thought I was going to be kidnapped last night. I could hear noises in the house.”
“The house is the most secure place for you to be.”
She smiles, but I can see that she really is scared.
She needs a little more convincing. “And I don’t bring work home. Business happens at Antonio’s or Angels and Sinners.”
“But what about territory disputes? Don’t they happen all the time?” She swallows, a ripple visible on her neck. “Other mafia groups are desperate to take over your imports.”
I narrow my eyes. Since when does she care about mafia politics? “Things are quiet right now.”
My phone buzzes. Antonio’s name flashes on the screen.
“Yeah?” I keep my eyes on Amara as she pretends not to listen.
“Saturday night at the club. We need to discuss the shipment.”
“I’ll be there.” I end the call, watching Amara’s face. She’s trying too hard to appear disinterested.
Something’s going on with her. And I’m going to find out what it is.
“Why didn’t you go to Caleb’s house?” I ask her.
“I wanted to be alone, and it felt weird with Poppy staying at the party.” She sighs. “I really wanted to talk to my mom but…”
“She was too busy to talk,” I finish for her.
She nods, but when she looks at me, tears are brimming at the edges of her eyes. “I am sorry for prying into your private space.”
She stares at me, waiting for me to say it’s okay. Her bright aquamarine eyes look more alluring than ever.
Then my gaze lands on her throat. I stare at it for a moment. “What the fuck?”
Her hand reaches to her neck.
“Oh,” she whimpers. Her hand wraps around her throat, covering what looks like slowly forming bruises.
“Show me.” My gaze holds hers.
An enormous fake smile lifts on her lips. “I’m fine. I need to go. I’m going to the beach.”
“You’re not going any fucking where until you tell me who did that to you,” I bellow, pointing at her neck. “What’s happened, Amara? Did Con do it?”
She slowly shakes her head, and I blink in frustration. I know she wants to say something but is scared or thinks it will sound ridiculous.
“It’s nothing,” she says, pushing off the stool and standing in front of me.
Today, her frame looks smaller than ever. And I do something I never do. Something I fight. Because I can’t do this. Keeping my distance from Amara is normally my specialty, but today, I pull her in for a hug.
She whimpers.
“Amara,” I whisper.
She is rigid in my hold. I get it.
“Talk to me,” I murmur, hoping tenderness will make her talk.
“I can’t.”
I let out a sigh, holding her quietly for a few minutes. Breathing in her scent, my hand stroking her back. I hate I’m attracted to Amara; I also hate that she is my stepdaughter and far too fucking young and innocent for someone like me.
But I hate she is hurting more.
She pulls away but she doesn’t leave immediately. She waits as she looks around. And just when I think she is about to open up, she walks to the door. “Thank you, I’m fine now.”
I nod my head. “Tell me who did it, and I’ll kill him.”
Her back stiffens as her hand holds the handle of my door. “I know. That’s why I can’t tell you.”
The next day, I line up my shot, squinting against the morning sun. The golf course stretches before us, dew still clinging to the manicured grass.
It’s peaceful out here. I love these days. Just me and Caleb. No mafia talk. No Helena. Only golf and my best friend.
I swing, hitting the ball, watching it fly through the air.
When it lands, I turn to Caleb. “How’s things?”
He sighs. “Okay, I suppose.”
I’ve known Caleb for over ten years now.
We met in the hospital, both sitting in those stiff plastic chairs while our wives battled cancer.
I remember the sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint scent of flowers from a nearby bouquet.
Each time I walked in, dread wrapped around my heart like a vice, waiting to be told there was nothing left but time now.
Caleb and I leaned on each other, sharing stories about our lives before the darkness settled in. I often laughed as he cracked a joke to lighten the mood, even when he was teetering on the edge of despair. Those moments—filled with laughter and tears—bonded us like brothers.
Our wives both fought hard, but fate dealt a cruel hand. Within one year of each other, both our wives lost their battles.
The pain brought Caleb and me closer together; we sought solace in each other’s company as we restarted our lives without them.
The financial strain threatened to take everything from him, but I couldn’t let Caleb’s life crumble under the weight of medical bills and mortgage payments, not when his wife had passed, and I could do so much more.
So, I stepped in.
I didn’t think twice about paying off his mortgage. It wasn’t charity; it was loyalty to a brother who had been through hell and back. When he tried to turn down my offer, I told him, “I take care of my family. Now you and Poppy are family.”
We stand on the golf course now, clubs in hand, two men who found their way through grief by laughing along the way.
Caleb is a little more thoughtful when he’s playing golf. He lines the ball up and takes lots of fake swings before he finally takes the shot.
“And you?” he asks, watching the ball arc through the air.
My thoughts drift back to Amara; her body molded against mine yesterday morning is an image I’m struggling to shift from my mind.
We jump into the golf cart and make our way to where the balls landed. As we get out of the cart, I say, “I’m fine, but has Poppy mentioned anything about Amara wanting to leave Australia?”
He looks aghast. “Leave? No. Why?”
I shake my head clear as I focus on my next shot, not knowing if I’m ready to share another moment with my friend before the shadows creep back in again.
But I pause, club mid-swing. “I found her in my office last night. Looking for her passport, at least that’s what she says.”
He nods slowly. “And that’s why you came back early from Victoria?” Caleb follows my ball’s trajectory. “The security alert?”
“Yeah.” I climb back into the golf buggy, letting Caleb drive to where his ball landed. “Something’s not right with her. She was terrified last night.”
Caleb’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “That doesn’t sound like Amara.”
“Can you talk to Poppy? See if she knows anything?” The buggy bumps along the path. “If someone’s hurting her...”
“You’re really worried about her.” Caleb glances at me, surprise clear in his expression.
“Of course I am.” I stare ahead at the perfect green course. “She’s not being honest with me. There are bruises on her neck this morning that weren’t there yesterday.”
“Bruises?” Caleb stops the buggy. “Have you asked her about them?”
“She won’t talk. Just changes the subject, and then runs away.” I slide my hand through my hair. “I need to know what’s going on with her, Caleb. Something’s not adding up.”
“I’ll talk to Poppy,” he says after a long pause. “See what I can find out.”