Claiming The Don’s Daughter Page 8

“Say what?”

  “Say you want out. I would never violate your wishes.”

  Summer’s shoulders relaxed. She lifted her eyes again, the coquette returning. He’d seen more facets of Summer in the past week than he’d ever seen in the eight years he’d known her. Her submissive side had been the most surprising, but he also loved the sexpot, the ingénue, the vulnerable little girl. He loved them as much as he loved the sassy, stuck-up mafia princess who never gave him the time of day and expected his service when her father snapped his fingers.

  “Carlo?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “Do you do this with all your... I mean—” She looked embarrassed.

  “I’ve played dominant before, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s my personality and I like the fetish, too, but I could live without it, if my girl wasn’t into it.”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze again. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “But you are, aren’t you, tesoro mio?”

  The copper eyes lifted. “Am I your girl?”

  “You are. I thought I made that clear last night. You’re mine now.”

  Her full lips stretched into a smile. “Oh yeah. Yours to punish and to pleasure.”

  He returned the grin. “That’s right.” He had a thousand wicked plans for both those activities. If Summer needed to feel sexy, he would make sure she did. He’d keep her turned on, objectified, worshipped, degraded and generally sexed up every minute of the day until she learned how fucking desirable she really was.

  That part seemed easy. Figuring out how to handle her father was another story. Because he sure as hell couldn’t run back to Sicily if things went south here.

  * * *

  You’re mine now.

  The words ripped through her chest like a flaming arrow. They burned and cut. She wanted them to be true. God, how she wanted them to be true. But how could they be? She sat next to Carlo in the passenger seat of his beautiful car, which he kept neat as a pin, unlike her car, which was pretty on the outside and a rumpled mess on the inside. Kinda like her.

  What did Carlo mean by all this? Was he really trying to “fix” her? Or just playing kinky games? Either way, she shouldn’t get too attached. Besides, it would be incredibly awkward if her parents found out. She suspected her mother would disapprove, as much as she loved Carlo. And her father... well, he could be a real dick to any guy she dated. And she could see him taking personal offense to Carlo having sex with her. Which is why she planned on keeping the whole thing on the down-low.

  She studied Carlo when he wasn’t looking, admiring the proud angles of his bone structure. She wondered how he got the tattered ear. A knife? Bullet wound? Teeth? He was certainly a warrior.

  He navigated traffic with ease, his hands relaxed on the wheel. She didn’t mistake the relaxed exterior for easy-going, though. His was a practiced calm; power and force rippled just below the surface. He was strong and capable, like her father. She felt safe when he was near and sorry for anyone who got in his way.

  She understood all this about him by his presence, which was as familiar to her as family. And yet, what else did she know? For eight years they’d eaten Sunday dinners together but she wasn’t acquainted with the real Carlo. And it seemed he’d been paying attention to her, which now put her at a disadvantage.

  “Why did you come to the States, Carlo?” Nothing like going for the heaviest question first.

  Carlo’s eyes slid sideways and moved back to the road. He didn’t open his mouth to speak and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to tell her.

  “You want to know my secrets, bambina?”

  Tingles flushed down the front of her at the question, the idea of knowing his secrets exciting. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She rubbed the seam of her shorts. “Well, it seems like I don’t really know you.”

  He arched a brow.

  “Well, I don’t. I know what you like to eat, or at least what you tell my mom you love. And I know you don’t like American coffee, but other than that, what do I really know? I don’t even know what you do for a living.”

  Carlo frowned and opened his mouth but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

  “Okay, okay, we don’t talk about that. But the problem is, what else do we talk about?”

  Carlo’s face had the cool, blank mask he always wore.

  Why had she never before wondered what lay beneath it? “Cat or dog?” she quizzed.

  “What?”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  He smiled. “I have nothing against dogs. But I like cats, actually.”

  She laughed at his embarrassed look, as if it were some kind of weakness to like cats. “I love cats. My mom’s allergic, but I always planned to get a cat when I moved out.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Maggie was allergic.” Maggie had been her first roommate—they’d been placed together in the dorms freshman year. “And then John didn’t like them.”

  It occurred to her that Carlo had a talent of offering very little and turning the conversation back to her. She pressed on. “How many girls have you spanked?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know—20? Twenty-five? Thirty? Contrary to popular belief, I don’t notch the bedpost.”

  “Have you had serious girlfriends? I mean, you never brought anyone to my parents’, but have there been girls?”

  He gave a dismissive shake of his head.

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. Another non-answer.

  “Why did you come to Chicago?” she tried again.

  He didn’t answer and nothing changed on his face, but she sensed the thread of tension her question drew.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” she promised.

  The corner of his lips lifted in that lopsided grin, but just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished again. A furrow deepened between his brows. “My brother ordered me killed.”

  She would have gasped, except she stopped breathing altogether.

  Now Carlo’s knuckles tightened on the wheel, tension flexed his jaw.

  “Why?” her voice cracked a little. She almost didn’t want to hear the answer.

  Carlo pulled into the parking lot behind 504 and parked next to her car.

  “I rose too fast in the organization. My father was dying. Mario thought I’d threaten his future as the Don.”

  Her vision blurred and she gripped the dash, as if she might fall out of her seat without it. “Carlo... I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

  He didn’t answer, but she suspected he had more to say.

  She sat perfectly still, waiting.

  “Sometimes I think the same thing might happen all over again. If Joey wanted back in, or if one of the older guys got a hair across his ass. People don’t like when a younger man holds more power. Your dad’s healthy, though, so it hasn’t come to a head.”

  He finally turned to look at her, and she must’ve looked shocked, because regret washed over his face. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “I shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. I’m so glad.” She unbuckled her seatbelt, wanting to get closer to him. Wanting to climb in his lap, despite the difficulty presented by the steering wheel.

  He gave a surprised chuckle when she attempted it and allowed her to nestle into him, her legs hanging over the center console. “Why did you think I moved here?”

  “I don’t know—I thought you were hiding from the law or something. But I realized it could be anything. I can’t tell what goes on inside your head. I mean, I had no idea you were a sick bastard who likes to take his belt to—” she broke off in a shriek of giggles as Carlo tickled her. “Safe word! Safe word.” She pressed her elbows to her sides and twisted to and fro. She’d take a beating with his belt over tickle torture any day.

  He kept his fingertips pressing into her ribs, but didn’t move them. Bending to bite her ear, he murmured, “Frivolous use of the words safe word are going to get
you spanked.”

  She shivered, excitement darting up her spine. “Safe word.”

  He made a tsking noise. “Bad girl. Get in your car. Drive back to my place and take your clothes off.”

  Her pussy turned liquid at the authority in his voice. She’d never known she had a switch that could be flipped so quickly. She’d gone from zero to horned up in about two seconds flat. Nevermind that it was the middle of the day and she had a boatload of homework she ought to be doing.

  “Yes, sir.” She crawled off his lap and out of the car. Leaning her head back in, she said, “Safe word.”

  Carlo chuckled.

  She shut the door and climbed in the BMW her father had bought her as a college graduation present, tossing her purse onto the pile of stuff sitting in the passenger seat. Tomorrow she’d clean her car. If her jail-keeper gave her permission to leave his apartment, that is.

  Chapter Four

  Detective Michael Bailey woke to the low buzz of his phone alarm at 5:00 a.m. He flicked it off and rolled out of bed. His wife’s side was already empty, which meant she was up with the baby again. Slipping on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, he padded out in search of them.

  He found them in the rocking chair in the living room, both his girls sleeping peacefully. Staring down at his daughter’s tiny, angelic face and his wife’s tender one, his chest constricted as love mixed with the sharp fear of losing them. Having a family changed everything for him. They were too sweet, too precious to lose. The contrast between their innocence and the horrors he saw on the street stunned him. Sometimes it seemed like he lived dual lives—the hardened undercover cop working to bust open a sex slave ring and the man who had to put it all away when he came home to them at night.

  Jasmine sighed and made a sucking motion in her sleep—air-nursing they liked to call it. Her little cheeks had filled out since birth and her thighs were starting to get chunky, too. Samantha called her a “yummy baby” and pretended to eat her fat feet.

  He resisted the urge to drop kisses on both their heads, not wanting to wake Jasmine after Sam had worked to put her back to sleep. He stuck his feet in his running shoes in the foyer and stepped outside the house to sit on the stoop and tie the laces.

  The air felt humid, but at least it was still cool at this hour. Standing up, he skipped the warm-ups and went straight to running, settling into a rhythm that brought focus to his thoughts.

  His investigation of Alexei Kaloshov had still not yielded the location of the sex slaves nor who was next up the chain in the Russian mafiya. None of his attempts to make contact and attempt to purchase a slave had panned out. He still didn’t understand how he’d been made at the La Torre Mafia’s high-roller game and that worried him. Was his identity known with them?

  He ran until his thoughts had run out and nothing but the sidewalk and the rhythm of his feet striking the concrete remained in his awareness. Until he circled back to his house and saw an elegantly dressed man leaning against his car outside his front door. His body went cold.

  He had no weapon—his gun was still locked safely inside. Inside! If anything had happened to Jasmine and Samantha…

  Grinding his teeth, he approached the figure, making out the face of mobster Carlo Romano, underboss of the La Torre family.

  Carlo remained leaning against the car, his posture relaxed. He removed his hands from his trouser pockets and flipped them open. “I’ll keep them where you can see them, if you do the same.”

  He eyed the guy, wishing to hell he had a weapon. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t pretend to be anything but the cop he was.

  “What were you after?”

  Fuck. His investigation had nothing to do with the La Torre family, other than their association with Alexei Kaloshov. He pressed his lips together, not sure how to answer.

  “You after my game?”

  “No.” That question he could answer directly.

  “Then what? One of the guys there?”

  “Obviously I can’t share any information about an investigation with you.”

  “You showed up at my game. Now I’m involved. I need to know who you’re after and why.”

  The arrogance of the interrogation wasn’t lost on him, nor was the implied threat of Carlo showing up within spitting distance of his family. Yet he found a grudging respect for the man for coming straight to him for answers. The La Torre family was still honor-bound. A throwback to a previous generation of mobsters, they’d been steadily working themselves into legitimate business while the rest of organized crime had taken over the drug and flesh trade and their practices had become more and more heinous.

  “How’d you know?”

  Carlo tilted his head to the side, looking him up and down. “You just didn’t look right. Hair’s too short. Gaze too steady. You weren’t nervous enough. Guys who come in ready to spend thousands of dollars on a game are excited—already high from the adrenaline. They’re sweating. Or their eyes jump around. Their fingers are wound up tight.”

  It was hard not to be impressed by Carlo’s observational skill. He’d wondered how a guy of no more than 35 years old had taken up such a position of power within the organization. This helped explain it. The guy was smart. And careful.

  On a gut instinct, he violated all kinds of department policy and offered up the truth. “I wanted an introduction to Alexei Kaloshov.”

  “What for?”

  “He runs a sex slave operation, bringing women over from the former Soviet Republic.”

  Nothing changed on Carlo’s face. He couldn’t tell whether the mobster already knew about the Russian or not.

  “I can’t let you into my game,” he said after a moment, as if he’d actually considered it. “You have a private phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  Carlo lifted his hands toward his jacket, then paused and flipped them palms out again. “I’m just getting a pen.” He held his gaze and moved slowly as he opened his suit jacket, which Michael appreciated. Pulling out a card and pen from the inner pocket, he held them out. “Here.”

  Michael took the outstretched card and pen and jotted his cell phone number down on it.

  “I’ll let you know if I have anything for you.” Carlo took the card and pen. Pushing away from the car, he started to walk around to the driver’s side.

  “Carlo.”

  The guy turned and looked over his shoulder.

  “If you ever come near my family again, I will bury you.”

  The mobster’s lips stretched into a slow, appreciative smile. “I’d expect nothing less, detective.”

  * * *

  Sunday dinner was sacred at the La Torre house. She’d tried, her first year in college to beg out of it, but her mother laid on the Italian mother guilt so thick, she’d soon given up and resigned herself.

  She arrived separate from Carlo, with their agreement not to tell anyone about the new twist in their relationship. Still, she couldn’t account for how differently she felt about him now. She sensed the moment he walked in the door because every cell in her body started vibrating.

  Her body remembered the way he’d used her, over and over again the night before. Bound spread eagle to his bed, he’d alternately tormented her and brought her to the brink of ecstasy. She remembered the caress of his velvet tongue licking into her core, making her come so many times she thought she’d never move again. Her pussy moistened now, just at the sound of his deep voice in the hall, the rich timber of his greeting to her father.

  She couldn’t decide where to look when he came in the room. Perched on the arm of the sofa, where she’d been talking to her Nonna, she purposely didn’t look over. But then, was that too obvious? Or rude? Jesus, was she blushing? She ducked down to re-tie the lace of her Chucks.

  “Hey Summer.”

  How did he manage to pull off casual? Oh God, he was coming over.

  She jerked up, her gaze darting to his face, then away as he leaned in for the customary cheek kisses. How many times
had she greeted him this way? Hundreds. Thousands. But this time had her heart racing, her palms sweating.

  He gripped her elbow to pull her in, which sent a zing of excitement running through her, reminding her of his dominance. Had he always held her arm like that? He gave it a squeeze before he released it. That part was definitely new. A secret message just for her.

  She didn’t dare look at him.

  Thankfully, Uncle Joey and Aunt Sophie and their two girls came bursting in with a flurry of greetings, saving her from more awkwardness.

  “Hey Summer, how’s your foot?” Sophie had been a massage therapist before she had kids, so they always talked body stuff. “Ooh, it’s swollen, hon. Have you been dancing?”

  She didn’t know how Sophie could tell it was swollen when it was tucked in her shoe and sock, but she was right. The damn thing was throbbing.

  “Yeah, a little.” Just not the kind of dance you’re thinking of.

  “You’re dancing?” She heard the sharp note of criticism in her mother’s voice. She’d never really supported the dance career—said she should be using her brains, not her body. As if dance was for idiots.

  Crap, she was flushing again. “Well, did you think I was quitting it forever?” she snapped back.

  The room got that awkward strain as her teenage sister Madison stared with interest and the other adults politely looked away. She wouldn’t sound so angry if some part of her didn’t share her mother’s opinion: the dance career was over. She might as well give up on the dream.

  Her mom put her hands on her hips. “I just didn’t know. Do you have time to get back to dance classes with all your graduate studies?”

  Of course she didn’t, which had been exactly the way her mom had planned it. By the time she re-emerged from graduate school, she’d be so far removed from the dance world that making a comeback would be impossible.

  She sensed Carlo’s attention on the conversation, even though he stood casually talking to Joey, his gaze bouncing around the room with no particular interest. She was sure he was listening, though, and she liked it. The only time John had ever listened to her conversing had been if he was the topic.