Chapter 10
ETTORE
Iget two or three hours of sleep, waking with exhaustion clinging to me.
All night, my mind was bouncing around. My poor Sylvie.
Livia and I thought her sleepwalking phase was over.
And calling out for her mother, dammit. Calling out for connection, for the parental figures in her life to make more of an effort.
I wouldn’t have thought like this before Mara. That says a lot about me and her.
If I wasn’t thinking about my daughter, my thoughts turned to Mara. She clearly had no clue she was wearing only her underwear until I started feasting on her with my eyes.
She looked unbelievable, breasts big and beautiful, weighty in her bra. Her body was all woman, hips begging for my lips, her underwear clinging to her sex and making me ache to touch her. When I gripped her hips, my manhood flooded with heat and tension.
Her breathing made me savage. Her breasts, from that angle, were fucking otherworldly.
Juicy and thick. I was throbbing just thinking about what her nipples would be like, pale, big, dark, how hard they’d get if I sucked them and massaged them.
If sucking her perfect tits would make her even wetter, if I’d be able to see the wetness soaking through the fabric of her underwear.
But still—I held strong. Way to goddamn go, man. I didn’t jerk off thinking about my nanny. I must be a monk or something. It’s pathetic to give myself credit for this, but I can’t deny how difficult it was.
I wake early and hit the gym. Every exercise is linked to her in some way.
I can’t lie on the weight bench without imagining her straddling me, wet noises as she shifts her gorgeous body back and forth.
I’m torturing myself by not cleaning my pipes.
But also, doing that while thinking about someone else or looking at a photo or something would feel… wrong.
But this is wrong too.
I shower, change, then go to the kitchen. It’s the weekend, so I’m the first one here. I check the time, then shoot a text to Mara.
Ettore: Breakfast is at nine.
Mara: Am I your personal chef now too?
I chuckle at her sassiness. It’s such an amazing change from the way everybody else tiptoes around me, even Livia. Hell, even my own daughter, in some ways.
Ettore: I’m your chef for the morning. I hope you like burned pancakes.
Mara: Are you kidding?
I don’t reply. Instead, I get to work. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve cooked anything, I can’t lie. My life is restaurants or private chefs. I end up following a recipe from my phone so I don’t screw it up.
A big smile spreads across my face when I hear Sylvie cry out from behind me. “Daddy!”
I turn, kneeling, catching her when she runs into my arms. She doesn’t seem tired or traumatized.
She seems happy. But Mara’s comment about her own childhood stuck with me.
The lie that she’s over it now. People are good at masking, even fooling themselves.
I’m sure Sylvie doesn’t want me to see her sad, even if she is.
“How hungry are you?” I ask, grinning.
“This hungry.” She spreads her hands.
“I better make some more then. Can you set the table for me, please?”
“Absolutely.”
I stand, glancing at Mara. She’s got her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing a white tank top with a pink bra, the strap showing. Sweatpants. It’s not a provocative outfit. Yet, I can’t stop looking. She offers me a small smile. I return it, then quickly turn back to the stove.
It’s like I can sense her disappointment. I imagine her thinking, Is he seriously going to try and fuck me then blank me? What she doesn’t understand is that coldness is the only way I can stop this. She’s too sweet, too caring, too sexy, too… everything.
I need to get my head on straight.
Plating the pancakes, I carry them to the table. Sylvie sits with her knife and fork in her hand, but she doesn’t eat. She looks down at the plate for a long time.
“Is something wrong?” I ask. “Don’t they look good?”
She sniffles. “They look really, really good, Daddy. I don’t want to eat them, they look so good.”
I swallow a lump of emotion. I feel Mara looking at me. I glance at her. She’s smiling, her eyes full of light. She frowns when I don’t return the smile back. The light in her eyes dims and turns to hurt.
Reaching over, I touch Sylvie’s shoulder. “I’ll make you another masterpiece sometime.”
“When?” she asks.
I remember what Mara said about promises. “As soon as I can,” I tell her, meaning it.
She nods. “Okay, Daddy.”
We all eat for a minute or two, when I realize I’ve forgotten the drinks. “Coffee?” I ask Mara, without looking at her.
“Sure,” she replies, voice strange.
“Can I have coffee?” Sylvie asks.
I chuckle. “Sure, when you’re eighty.”
“But you’re not eighty, and you’re having a coffee.”
“You’re too smart for me, but you’re still getting OJ.”
“I’ll get the drinks,” Mara says, standing. I don’t look at her. Livia must enter, because Mara says from behind me, “Coffee, Livia?”
“Sure.” She joins us at the table.
Sylvie finishes her pancakes then gives me the sweetest look. “Daddy, are you going to come to my ballet recital?”
I swallow a lump. Thinking about how important this is to her—and the fact that I shouldn’t promise. I really shouldn’t.
It’s not like a regular job. If the Cartel or another Family hits us, what am I going to do, abandon my men, let them die? Sometimes, I think it was better my parents told me who I was, about this dark, dangerous life, before I was old enough to feel betrayed. Even if it probably messed me up.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs into the silence when I don’t answer.
“When is it?” I ask.
“Next week, Friday,” Mara mutters.
“I’ll be there,” I say, smiling at my daughter, her face lighting up.
“Promise?” she asks.
“Promise. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“We have to practice, Mara!” Sylvie sings. “As much as possible. Daddy’s going to see me dance.”
She leaps to her feet. Mara stands too, her chair making a harsh noise. “Do you mind?” she says.
Still not looking at her, I say, “Of course not.”
When they leave the room, Livia says, “Have you had sex with her?”
I spin to her in shock. “What?”
“You could’ve cut that tension with a butter knife that’s spent the last decade being blunted,” she says. “What was that about? You wouldn’t even look at her. But when she handed you your cup of coffee, you looked wild, Ettore.”
I grind my teeth. She’s either too perceptive or I’m too obvious. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” Livia says. She aims a finger at me. “Sylvie likes Mara, a lot. You need to think about your daughter before you do anything you can’t take back.”
“Are you seriously going to lecture me about putting my daughter first?” I snap.
“All her life, that’s all I’ve ever done.
She’s the only person I truly cared about.
Everything I do is for her. Mara can’t understand why I have to be distant sometimes.
She thinks I’m just some selfish CEO douchebag, and that breaks me a little, sure.
But you understand. This is life and death we’re talking about. ”
Livia nods, then says, “It breaks you that Mara thinks of you in that way? Doesn’t that demonstrate my point? She’s becoming too much for you, Ettore. Perhaps you haven’t crossed that line. But you can’t sit there and tell me there isn’t something there.”
“What if there is?” I demand. “Would that be so bad? Am I destined to spend the rest of my life alone, no woman, no love, no connection of any kind?”
“You’re right. I grew up in this life, just like you. You’re a Don. Go into the city and go into any bar and you could have any woman you want.”
“I don’t want any woman.” I stand. “And I haven’t even said I want Mara. You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” she says firmly.
I wave a hand. “Do your job. Clean this up.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Now you’re being cruel, which is unlike you. Every word proves my point.”
“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think,” I growl. “Maybe all this…” I wave at the estate in general. “Is the mask. The real me is out there. The man with blood on his hands. The man who will never be clean.”
“I don’t think so, and I don’t think you do either.”
“You don’t know everything, Livia.”
I storm out, knowing I’m acting like a petulant child. I can’t help it.
She hit the mark there with laser precision.