Theafternoonwasalloperational drag. Marco’s intel drops every hour, Sal’s check-ins every thirty. The Bratva crew was ID’d but not in play yet—they were at a motel in Elk Grove, drinking through their nerves and waiting for an all-clear. We had to wait, too. There was nothing worse than waiting for men to do violence at your back.
I worked the phones, the computer, the spreadsheet of doom Marco had set up to track every single variable in the case. I checked the cams on the terrace, checked the entry logs, ran the perimeter once in person, just to feel the air.
I hadn’t seen Angela since the gym.
I texted her. No response.
I went looking.
The nursery was soft yellow with dusk, the overhead light off, the lamp on the side table glowing low. She was on the sheepskin rug, one hand curled under her cheek, the other fisted in the edge of a pale blanket. Her hair was loose, falling across her face. A copy of The Little Prince was open next to her, spine cracked to the chapter with the fox.
She looked so fucking tender, so undone, it made my heart hitch. I knelt beside her, just to watch her breathe for a second. The muscles in her jaw unclenched when she slept. Her lips parted, a soft wet sound coming out every other exhale.
I reached out, smoothed the hair back. She stirred. Her hand reached up, without thinking, for my face.
“Daddy,” she said, sleep-soft, like it was a word she’d known since birth.
That was it. That was all it took.
I sat on the rug, legs folded, and pulled her up into my lap. She curled against me, head in the crook of my shoulder, her whole body loose and trusting.
I held her.
The blanket slid down, and I wrapped it around us both, cocooned in the yellow light and the smell of her. She made a little noise, not quite a word, then pressed her nose into my neck.
I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to do anything except this, for as long as she wanted.
When she woke fully, her eyes opened slow. She looked at me, confused, then saw where she was. She tightened her arms around my chest.
“Hey,” she whispered.
“Hey,” I said.
She shifted, sat up a little straighter. Her legs straddled mine, loose and warm under the blanket. Her hair was still a mess from sleep, one strap of the sports bra fallen off her shoulder. She didn’t fix it.
I looked at the wall.
I traced her jaw with my thumb, just once, telling myself that was all I was going to do.
She turned her face into my hand like a cat, lips brushing my palm.
I looked back at her.
I shouldn’t do it. I should wait. I had to think carefully. I—
I kissed her. She kissed back.
She did it like a question, slow and careful, letting me answer in my own time. Her lips were soft, her tongue tentative at first, then bolder when I opened for her.
I kissed her back, slow at first, then harder. I let my hand tangle in her hair, holding her in place, tasting the edge of need that lived just under her skin.
She made a sound, a high whimper, and I felt her hips roll against me. I gripped her tighter, the heat between us building fast, but I held the line.
I wanted her. I wanted to take her, right here on the rug. But more than that, I wanted to keep her. I wanted to give her this feeling, this safety, until she asked for more.
We kissed until we were both shaking.
She pulled back first, eyes dark, pupils blown.
