Her fingertips drifted along her collarbone and slowly,sensually, slid down her—
I tore my gaze away and stared at the blank walls. The demons in my head tugged hard at my forbidden desires, begging me to watch what I, what no man should ever watch. I knew I’d kill anyone who would.
She’s not a child. She’s almost seventeen.
You said yourself you could marry her right now, and it’d be legal.
Your mother had you when she was sixteen.
Your late wife was Angel’s age when you married her.
It’s not like she belongs to someone else. She’s yours, so go ahead and—
Squeezing my eyes shut, I groaned and practically ran outside of the room before I did something I’d never forgive myself for. This was the first time I’d ever seen her do something...womanly. My sweet, innocent, pure girl was no longer a girl. “But I’m not a fucking pervert.”
Yes, you are. You’re a fucking stalker. You’ve been stalking her since she was fucking twelve.
“To protect her. I’ve never once—” I cursed and stormed toward the minibar. Then I poured myself some prosecco. “If my Angel wants to…touch herself…thinking of me,” a delightful, smug feeling washed over me, “that’s her business. She has needs.” Needs only I would satisfy. Now if I’d been young and free like she was. But I wasn’t, and we had to fucking wait.
If she’d been any other girl, if her prick of a father hadn’t brutally hurt her, mentally scarring her for life, I’d have just taken her without giving a single fuck, giving her everything she ever needed or wanted as long as we both fucking lived.
My eyes betrayed me and stole a glance at the windows. I could still see her room from the hall. My Angel was in bed now with the lights on, and by the way her body moved, there was no doubt what she was doing under the sheets.
I swore and downed my drink. “I’m gonna need something stronger than that.” And I was definitely going in first thing in the morning, taking all the clothes she was wearing now before she got a chance to wash them.
A buzz snatched me out of my thoughts. A text message from one of my bodyguards letting me know my son was here. I went to the door and saw my son in the security panel camera. Then I punched in the code and buzzed him in.
My arms wide open, I smiled. “Piccolo.”
“Ugh.” He rolled his eyes but hugged me. “Old man.”
I slugged him on the back, and then subtly searched him for guns, hoping he’d fucking listen and walk with one. “I’m only thirty-seven, and why the hell aren’t you packing?”
“Because I’m not a made man, remember? I’m piccolo,” he taunted as he sauntered inside.
“This isn’t funny, Leo. I have enemies, and you’re my only son. They can hurt you to get to me. How are you gonna defend yourself? You won’t even have your own bodyguards.”
“I’m sure the ones you appointed to follow me around anyway will take care of the job.” The fucker winked at me, sinking in the couch, rolling his arms around its back without a care.
I returned to the bar and poured us some drinks. Bourbon—his favorite—for him, and whiskey for me. I put his drink on the coffee table and sipped from mine as I sat across from him.
“I’m not old enough to drink,” he mocked.
As if he hadn’t been for years? “You’re fucking eighteen. That’s old enough to do many things. I married your mamma when I was eighteen, already top of my crew—”
“Dad, please. Can we for once not have the Mob talk every time I visit?”
“Why the fuck not?”
“’Cause it’ll lead to the Mom talk,” he said as a warning, “and we’ll both be upset.”
My eyes narrowed at him, my jaws clenching. His dark blue eyes held mine in a dare. I took in his face that I’d missed for months. My own son was the spitting image of me, but he was doing everything in his power not to be like me.
He was, though. In so many ways. He just didn’t want to admit it.
Violin music streamed in, and my heart immediately banged, dancing to my sweet Angel’s melody. My lips twitched with a smile as I turned my gaze toward the window.
“That’s nice. Where’s it coming from?” Leo asked.
