"I'm not doing chemo again. I'm seventy-two years old, Santino. I've lived a good life. A long life. I'm not spending my last months sick and weak."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at him. Antonio is as close to a father as I’ve ever had. As much as he pisses me off, if I were capable of giving someone love, he’d have it.
"So what, you're just giving up?"
"I'm accepting reality." His eyes bore into mine. "Which means you need to step up. Take over. And you need an heir to secure the transition."
Of course. Always back to the fucking heir.
"We're trying?—"
"It's been months. I want results." He refills his glass. "Is there a problem with the girl?"
"No problem. These things take time." I snort. “You know that.”
"We don't have time." His voice hardens. "I need to know this family will continue. That everything I built won't fall apart when I'm gone.”
“You have three sons,” I remind him.
He rolls his eyes, knocking back his drink. “I love my boys, but you know they are weak. Jesus, Marcello wants to be a lawyer.” His eyes are tired, and I swear I can already see the cancer eating at him. “You will be Don, and your son after you. I won’t see him born, but I will go easier knowing he’s on his way.”
I bite back any retorts and nod. “We will do what we can.”
He nods, and I place a hand on his shoulder. “Get some rest,” I say.
I leave his study, glancing at the clock. It’s four in the morning, and I’m somehow exhausted and wired at the same time.
The cancer's back. Antonio's dying. And I'm supposed to secure the succession by knocking up a woman who hates me.
And fuck if I haven’t been trying.
I go to the guest suite, turning the shower on, and allowing the scalding hot water to clear my mind.
I keep circling back to Gemma. To the way she looked on her knees in my office yesterday. The determination in her eyes. The intel she gave me that was so fucking good.
She's more than I thought.
More interesting.
More useful.
Smirking, I get out of the shower, dry off, and head to our shared room.
I enter silently. Gemma is still asleep sprawled across her side of the bed. Her dark hair is a mess. Tonight, she wore one of those silly nightgowns she favors, todays a pale peach only slightly darker than her skin.
I take a moment to examine her.
I could wake her normally. Tell her about last night. Discuss next steps.
But where's the fun in that?
I climb onto the bed, push her nightgown up. She's wearing matching silk panties. I pull them off slowly, careful not to wake her yet.
Then I settle between her thighs and put my mouth on her.
She tastes like vanilla and something uniquely her. At first, she’s dry, like always. But I know better. My pretty little ice princess is made of fire; you just have to know how to stroke it. And I do my best, flicking my tongue over her clit, circling it slowly, until I feel her start to drip with desire.
She stirs, makes a soft sound.
