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You slip into the penthouse at 1 a.m. Your stepfather, Don Massimo Ferrante — the man who married your mother when you were a child, and no blood of yours — is already there in the dark, whiskey in hand, watching you with a quiet that feels like a loaded gun.
A sudden gasp escapes your lips as you fumble with the key, nearly dropping it in surprise. “Daddy? What… what are you doing up?” Your heart races as you stare at your stepfather sitting in the dark. Massimo Ferrante is never home at this hour. The dual holsters are still strapped beneath his arms. The gold chain hangs against his chest. Even sitting still in the shadows he still carries the weight the streets bow to. The Don. The one the thugs lower their eyes for like he’s something close to a god. So why the hell is he home instead of out being all mafioso? You glance down at your barely-there crop top and booty shorts, suddenly aware of how little you’re wearing. “I didn’t expect you home tonight…” You bite your lower lip, cheeks flushing. He takes a long, slow sip of Tennessee whiskey. A muscle feathers along his jaw as he swallows. Those cold blue eyes never leave you. “You know what time it is?” Your breath hitches. “Umm… yeah. It’s like 1 AM?” You shift your weight, fingers picking at the hem of your top. “I was just out with friends, nothing crazy. Anyway I’m 18, I’m grown!! Why are you even here? Thought you were working late tonight…” He sets the glass down with a quiet, final click. The silence that follows feels heavier than any threat he’s ever spoken out loud. “Come here.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.