Chapter 9
Pietro
Iwoke up on the couch with the weight of the room changed. For the first time in two years, my body felt like it belonged to me. I had slept five hours straight, an actual block, not a series of fitful wakeups and half-memories. My heart was still working, slow and even.
No nightmares.
Not even one.
Not even for a second.
No standing at the window counting how many headlights passed, or how many times I could clench and unclench my jaw before it cracked.
I rolled to my side and checked my hand. The bite she’d given me had closed up. The skin was pink, but clean. The teeth marks left a shallow ridge, like she’d written a message in Braille. I flexed it, made a fist, let it go. No pain.
Weirdly, it felt good that she’d left a mark. Matched the one she was fast leaving on my heart.
The apartment was still. The radiator kicked once, then settled. Outside, the city floated in its own blue haze, the river going glassy between two slabs of concrete. I got up, checked the perimeter, then ran the coffee through.
While the coffee filtered, I opened the fridge. Last night, I’d made sure it was stocked. I lined up the eggs, the spinach, the two kinds of bread (one for her, one for me), checked the expiration on the yogurt, then closed the door and wiped the handle even though it didn’t need it.
I waited. Not long.
She came in wearing the same grey sweats from yesterday, the ones that made her look smaller, her hair back in a rough knot, no makeup, no nothing.
She stood in the entry for a second and scanned the room, the way she did whenever she entered a new space: cataloguing sightlines, searching for tells.
When her eyes landed on me, she didn’t look away.
You and I, I thought, we’re bonded.
I poured the coffee into her mug, then mine. I watched the way her hands went to the hem of her shirt, rolling and unrolling it, not fidgeting so much as taking stock of what was still hers to control.
I said, “Morning.”
She nodded. “Morning. Daddy.”
My heart pounded in my chest. She’d never called me that before, and I hadn’t been ready for it. I felt something expand in me, something voracious and huge.
I set her mug on the table, then took mine and leaned against the counter. The rules from last night hung between us, unspoken but present. She didn’t reach for her phone, didn’t ask what was next, didn’t test me—not yet.
I said, “Did you eat?”
She shook her head. “Was waiting for you.”
I was glad.
“Good girl.”
I saw a hint of a smile on her lips. I went to the fridge, cracked three eggs into the pan, let the whites go milky before adding the spinach. I used the spatula with my bad hand, just to see if it would twitch. It didn’t.
While it cooked, I watched her. She watched me. The air felt loaded, even with nothing happening.
“You sleep well, Baby?” I asked.
“Mmhmm. Like a little angel.” But the look she gave me was anything but angelic.
I plated the eggs and set them on the table. I cut two slices of bread, toasted them, buttered one side. I set everything out in front of her, then sat across and watched her eat.
She ate fast, the way you did when food was a transaction.
Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. I didn’t say anything until she slowed down, until I saw the tension leave her shoulders.
Then I said, “Today, the rules are clear. Water every three hours. Three meals. You don’t leave the apartment unless you clear it with me.
If you need air, we use the terrace. If you want to work, you can, but you check in every two hours.
If you don’t, I come find you. Understand? ”
She nodded. There was a calm in it, but not a limp kind. She wanted the rules. She was already mapping out how to bend them.
I watched her mouth as she chewed. It wasn’t supposed to be a turn-on, but everything she did this morning was, even the way she ran her tongue along her top teeth after she swallowed.
I said, “When you’re done, go get ready for the day. I left clothes on the bed.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You picked for me?”
“Yes. I want to see you in the blue.”
She didn’t argue. She just finished her coffee, then stood up and carried her plate to the sink. She rinsed it, set it in the rack, then turned.
She hesitated in the doorway, like she wanted to say something. When she did, it was quiet but not fragile.
“I was thinking about you all night,” she said.
I tried to play it cool. “Anything good?”
She smiled, but it was edged. “All good. Mostly about how much I want to fuck you.”
The words landed hot in my chest. I didn’t move. I didn’t even look away. I just let it burn.
I said, “You know I own that now.”
She tilted her head. “Own what?”
“Your pleasure. It’s in the contract. You remember.”
She laughed, low, the kind of laugh that was more about air than sound. “I remember. Are you going to punish me if I break the rule?”
I didn’t answer. I wanted her to see the answer on my face, in my hands, in the way I was already clenching the edge of the table to keep from grabbing her and pinning her to the wall.
She went to the bedroom. The door shut soft.
I listened for the sound of her moving in the closet, the small thud of her pulling on the new underwear I’d picked.
It was cotton, pale blue, soft and clean, but the idea of her putting it on because I wanted her to was more erotic than anything I could have put into words.
She came back out in the jeans, the blue bralette under the white t-shirt.
She looked gorgeous, truly perfect. She ran her hands through her hair, not bothering to check if it was straight, and then came and stood in the middle of the kitchen, both hands at her sides, waiting for me to do the next thing.
I wanted her right there, up against the counter, but I didn’t. Not yet.
I said, “What are you thinking right now?”
She didn’t even flinch. “I’m thinking about what would happen if I broke the rule on purpose. If I went in the bathroom and touched myself until I screamed. If I made you come in there and make me stop.”
I felt the blood rush to my cock, hard and fast. I kept my voice steady. “You sure you want to find out? That you want to test me so soon?”
She nodded, slow. “I want to know what happens when I make you mad. I want to know if you’ll keep your promise.”
I leaned in, both palms flat on the counter. “You’re not going to win, Angela.”
She smiled. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
My phone buzzed on the table. I looked at it—Marco. I looked back at her.
I said, “I have to take this.”
She shrugged, like it was no big deal, but the heat between us didn’t go anywhere. It just sat there, banked and simmering.
“Seems like you can take whatever you want, whenever you want.” Her hand dropped to her chest, landing against the softness there. My dick was going fucking berserk.
I swallowed the lust, then walked into the other room to answer the call. My hand was shaking, my body trembled.
How the fuck was I meant to resist her?
Marco’s call ran two hours, maybe more. I stood at the window with the river below and the city crawling past, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the scuff and crackle of my cousin’s breathing as he worked the keys at his end.
Sal joined on a three-way, his voice as cold as the river, no patience for anything but the facts.
“Halberd’s old fixer was in Jersey last night, but left before we got eyes,” said Marco. “We think he’s looping through, not settling. This is all C-list talent, Pi. But the money’s real.”
I said, “The Detroit Bratva’s in town.”
Sal, clipped: “They have at least one more pair. The two you and Tonio handled were not the primary team.”
“Which means they’re waiting for a window,” I said.
“Or for you to make a mistake,” said Sal.
I let the silence ride a second, then shifted to the next problem. “Any hits on the Moretti network?”
Marco: “Gemma’s in Boston, and she’s locked down tight. Nothing from her side. The only vector is here. And she’s not the one they want.”
I sipped coffee, let it cool in my mouth, let the facts line up. “The girl is the only actionable target, then.”
No one said anything for a while.
Sal finally said, “You have it contained?”
I said, “Yes.”
He waited. “And you’re following the protocol?”
“Better than last time,” I said.
Sal’s voice had no edge, but it cut anyway: “Don’t fuck this up, Pi.”
The line went dead.
I pocketed the phone and checked the clock. Midday. I was supposed to ping Angela at noon, make sure she’d drunk her water, make sure she wasn’t burning the rules down already. I sent the text.
No answer.
I waited five minutes, then another five. I walked the perimeter—kitchen, living room, terrace. Her phone was on the island, face down. Her shoes by the door. I checked the bathroom. Empty.
I found her in the nursery, legs folded under her, back against the baseboard. She was reading, one of the old Christie paperbacks, a pen between her teeth. There was a bottle of water on the carpet beside her, untouched.
I stood in the doorway, watching.
She didn’t look up right away. She was waiting for me to say something first.
I didn’t.
After a while, she lifted her eyes. They were the color of grey glass, flat and shining.
“You missed your check-in,” I said.
She shrugged. “I was a little busy, Daddy.”
I stepped in, closed the door behind me. The room was warm, the air heavy with wool and paper and the faint chemical sharpness of her body. I sat down on the rug, cross-legged, not quite facing her.
I picked up the water bottle and set it between us. The rules were clear, but I wanted her to reach for it herself.
She did. She picked it up, turned it once in her hand, then took a long, slow pull. The water moved in the clear plastic, the level dropping, the line of her throat working with each swallow. She finished half, then set it back down, slow, like she was doing a demonstration.
She watched my face for a reaction. She wouldn’t get one.
She said, “Are you going to punish me?”
I said, “Is that what you want?”
She smirked, all calculation. “Maybe.”