Page 15 of Texting My Mafia Boss

When I see Sylvie in the front yard, near the fountain, I tell my driver to stop. She’s splashing around, sunlight glistening off her big smile. There’s a tugging in my heart when I imagine what other fathers would feel now. Fathers who don’t have to worry about their daughter one day hating them for their dark deeds. Or being married off to another Family.

“Daddy!” she cries, rushing out of the fountain. She stops nervously in front of me. “I don’t want to get you wet.”

I chuckle and sweep her into my arms. She giggles and clutches me tightly. Over her shoulder, I see Mara watching, her knitting needles in her hand.

She looks… fierce, flawless, ferocious even. She’s wearing her staple hip-hugging jeans that cling to her thick thighs and a top with frilly white bits on it. No cleavage, but there doesn’t need to be any. Her breasts are tempting enough.

I put my daughter down and focus. Reading Mara’s texts is difficult enough. Being with her in person is more than a challenge.

“Sylvie, do you know where Livia is?”

“In the kitchen.Cleaning.”

I laugh. She says it like it’s the most boring thing in the world.

“Be a good girl and help her.”

“Daddy. Why?”

I kneel and gently cup her chin. “Look around you. Look at this place. It’s big and expensive, and we’re very lucky to live here. The biggest danger when growing up in a place like this is that you become ungrateful for it. It becomes too normal. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

She looks at me, thinking hard. “I think so.”

“So, will you help her?”

She throws her arms around me again. “Yes, okay.”

I give her a squeeze. “Thank you. I love you.” My voice cracks unexpectedly on the words.

“I love you too, daddy.”

She turns and rushes to Mara. “Mara, do you want to he?—”

“I need to speak with Mara,” I say, joining them.

“Go on,” Mara says, her greenish, gray eyes filled with kindness.

Once Sylvie is gone, I stand over Mara on the front porch. She looks up at me with her eyes going wide. I don’t know if she’s scared or angry or something in between.

“I didn’t mean to call you home from work,” she murmurs. “I thought you worked from home, anyway.”

“It depends on the day, depends on the job,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. The drawing is sitting on the table in front of her. She places her knitting beside her thick thigh. My body aches, and my heart does strange things too.

“Are you going to fire me?”

I sit opposite her, our legs almost touching under the table. Her scent fluttering in the wind, straight to my core. But she doesn’t smell like perfume. She smells like woman, her own scent that has my groin staining. I’m shocked by how difficult it is not to lean over and breathe her in.

I’ve never found it difficult to resist a woman.

“Where did you learn to knit?”

She’s taken off-guard. Good. If I’ve learned one thing in my life, it’s how to dominate a meeting.

“One of my better foster parents. I thought they were going to adopt me. Built up this whole fantasy in my head about it. Anyway, they didn’t, but I never quit the knitting.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t overshare.”