Chapter 14: Domenico - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

The door swings open around midnight, and in walks Dr. Ruth Morgan. She’s wearing a white coat over a plain blouse and dark pants, and a leather satchel hangs from one shoulder like she’s ready for a fucking lecture.

My arm is wrapped around Kira, who’s been asleep against my chest for the past hour. Her breathing is deep and even, her fingers curled into my shirt.

I told her about the brilliant Dr. Morgan—neurologist extraordinaire, and the relief on my wife’s face was worth whatever this woman is costing me.

Now Kira’s asleep, and Dr. Morgan is standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and an expression that says she doesn’t give a shit about anyone’s comfort.

I shift, and Kira stirs. Her eyes open slowly, blinking in the dim light. She sees Dr. Morgan, and the confusion on her face sharpens into alertness.

“Dr. Morgan,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Let’s step outside.”

Kira slides off my lap, her movements stiff from sitting so long. She doesn’t take her eyes off the doctor, who’s already turning toward the door without waiting for us.

The corridor is quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a sickly pale glow. Vinny’s still where I left him, leaning against the wall, his eyes tracking us as we emerge. The night-shift nurses move between rooms with hushed footsteps, and somewhere down the hall, a machine beeps at regular intervals.

Dr. Morgan stops a few feet from Paige’s door and turns to face us. Her arms are still crossed.

“I need you both to leave,” she says.

Kira’s face drains of color, and she physically rears back. “What?” Her voice cracks. “You can’t be serious. I’m not leaving my mom.”

She plants herself between the doctor and the door, arms crossing over her chest the same way Dr. Morgan’s are. The two of them stand there, mirror images of stubbornness, and something in my chest tightens. Not anger—something warmer, sharper. Pride, maybe.

My wife doesn’t back down.

“I’ve brought two of my best colleagues with me,” Dr. Morgan says, her tone clipped and precise. “They’re reviewing your mother’s charts downstairs. I need time to evaluate her, speak with the nursing staff, and form my own conclusions without interference.” She pauses, adjusts her glasses. “If you’re not willing to give me that, I’m wasting my time, and I’ll leave.”

The anger hits me low and fast. Not at the demand—I expected that—but at the way she’s talking to Kira. Like my wife is an obstacle instead of a person.

“Watch it,” I growl.

Kira holds up her hand to stop me before I can say anything else. My jaw clenches, but I keep my mouth shut. This is Kira’s fight, not mine.

“Before you spend a single minute alone with my mom,” Kira says, her voice steadying, “I want to see your credentials. All of them.”

“Has Domenico not explained who I am?” Dr. Morgan asks, pushing her glasses further up her nose.

I have, but there’s no way I’m pointing that out. Not when my wife’s in full-on protector mode. And when Dr. Morgan looks at me, I just shrug.

Dr. Ruth Morgan is one of the best and brightest when it comes to neurology in America. Hell, probably including Europe and Asia as well. However, that’s not why I know her.

Her eldest daughter used to be married to the head of the Albanian Mafia. A ruthless bastard who used his wife as a punching bag. And when she became pregnant… let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.

If it wasn’t for us ending the war by driving the entire Albanian organization from Boston, the good doctor would have lost her daughter. A fact she’ll never forget. Not because I won’t let her—she can’t when her daughter named her son Domenico in gratitude.

Kira shrugs. “I want to hear it from you.”

Dr. Morgan tilts her head in what had better be a show of respect. Then she reaches into her satchel, pulls out a folder, and hands it to Kira without a word.

“I’m a board-certified neurologist,” she says as Kira flips through the papers. “I’ve spent over eighteen years specializing in severe traumatic brain injury and disorders of consciousness. I’ve studied and taught at Harvard as well as Brigham and Women’s Hospital right here in Boston. You can verify all of it in the morning. But right now, we’re wasting time, Mrs. DeLuca.”

Kira studies each page, her fingers moving slowly. I watch her face, the way her brow furrows, the way she bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating. She’s thorough. Methodical. Checking dates, certifications, and the institutions Dr. Morgan named. When she looks up, there’s no relief in her eyes—just a harder edge.

“What’s your plan for tonight? Exactly.”

Dr. Morgan adjusts her glasses again. “I’ll review all your mom’s records and personally speak with the overnight nursing staff to get their observations. Then I’ll conduct my own neurological examination.” Each point lands like a stone. “And I’ll form my own conclusions without interference from the hospital’s attending physician or anyone else. Including you.”

Kira’s jaw tightens. I can see her working through it, looking for the flaw, the thing she can grab onto and refuse. There isn’t a legitimate reason though. Not really. And definitely not if she wants her mom to get looked at by one of the best.

I don’t fault my wife for feeling uneasy, or for wanting to challenge Dr. Morgan. Not when her dad made her a pawn in her mom’s care. Sick bastard. I know I’ve done questionable things. But this… using family against family.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Fine.” The word comes out clipped as my wife steps aside, her shoulders dropping an inch. The fight drains out of her, leaving her looking smaller than she did a minute ago.

I move with her and place my hands on her shoulders. “I want answers by morning,” I tell Dr. Morgan.

She holds my gaze, and there’s no fear in her eyes. Just the flat certainty of someone who knows exactly how good she is. “You’ll get answers when I’m ready to give them,” she states. “Not a second before.”

Then Dr. Morgan pushes through the door into Paige’s room without waiting for a response.

With her gone, I turn to Vinny, who’s already straightened up from the wall. “We’re leaving, Vinny. I need you to stay until Gio comes to relieve you.”

He nods. “Understood, Boss.”

“No one gets in or out of that room without Dr. Morgan’s say-so. No exceptions.”

“Got it.”

Kira watches Vinny settle back against the wall, his posture shifting into that alert, watchful stance he defaults to when he’s on duty. Her hands hang loose at her sides, and the fight is gone from her completely now.

She looks exhausted now. Hollow even. Still, she smiles gratefully at Vinny and says, “I’m sorry you have to—”

“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. DeLuca.”

“Kira,” she sighs, exhausted. “And thank you, Vinny. For looking after my mom.”

Vinny nods once, his expression softening for half a second as he says, “As I said, it’s my pleasure, Kira,” before it goes professional again.

I take Kira’s hand. Her fingers are cold, and she doesn’t squeeze back. We walk toward the elevator in silence, her shoulder brushing against my arm with each step, and I can feel the weight of everything she’s carrying in the way she moves. Like each footfall costs her something.

As we wordlessly leave the hospital, I check the text Gio sent me for where he parked my car after he picked up Carly hours ago. Once we find it, we slide inside and drive home.

Kira’s knees are pulled to her chest, her forehead pressed against the glass, and I can see her breath fogging the window in small, uneven clouds. The streets are wet, and the headlights cut through puddles that throw light across the dashboard in shifting patterns. I rest one hand on my wife’s knee, squeezing it every time her breathing stutters.

The penthouse is dark when we step out of the elevator. I hit the lights, and the place comes to life in warm layers. Kira stands in the middle of it all, her arms wrapped around herself.

“Do you want to—”

“I don’t want to go to bed,” she says, interrupting me. “If that’s what you were going to say.”

“What do you want?”

She shrugs. The gesture is small and defeated. “A drink.”

We move into the living room and I walk over to the bar cart and pull out two glasses. Instead of pouring the drinks, I grab the whiskey bottle and carry it to the couch where Kira’s already sitting.

She eyes me as I pour us both a drink and hand it to her. Taking the glass, she brings it to her lips without hesitation. The cough is immediate. Violent. She doubles over, whiskey sloshing over the rim of the glass onto her jeans.

“That’s awful,” she wheezes, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It’s an acquired taste.” I take a sip of mine. It burns exactly the way it’s supposed to.

She tries again, slower this time. The second sip goes down with only a small grimace, the third goes down easier. By the fifth, she’s drinking it like water, and I’m starting to wonder if I should cut her off.

“Have you had enough?” I ask.

She sets her empty glass on the coffee table with a sharp click. “No. I want to get drunk.”

“Kira—”

“I did everything right.” The words come out flat, like she’s reading from a script she’s rehearsed too many times. “My entire life, I’ve done everything I was supposed to. I obeyed my dad even when I knew he was wrong. I agreed to marry Paolo because it would save my mom.”

While she talks, I refill the glasses and remove my suit jacket.

“I even married you when your son left me at the altar.” Letting out a humorless laugh, she reaches for her glass and drinks half before continuing. “I followed every rule, I was good, I did everything the way I was supposed to, and for what?” Her voice cracks. “Mom still had a seizure, and she… she might die. So tell me, please, what was the point of any of it?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know,” she snips. “You have to know.”

“Why?”

She knocks back the rest of the contents in her glass in one go and sets it down hard enough that I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.

“Because I don’t,” she murmurs. “And I can’t… I can’t stand all this not knowing, Domenico. It’s… it hurts.”

When I reach for her, she slides away from me and shakes her head. “I don’t want to be held right now.”

I move so fast she doesn’t have time to react. One moment, my hand’s resting on my thigh. The next it’s around her throat, squeezing until her eyes are as wide as saucers.

“What did you just say?” I ask, my tone low and dangerous. “It sounds a lot like you think you can deny me, Kira. Is that what you think?”

“I-I just need some space.”

“The last time you wanted space you ended up calling me Daddy.” My tone’s mocking now. “Is that what you want? To scream that again?”

Her lips part, but whatever she was about to say dies when I flex my hand in warning.

I give her throat another deliberate squeeze before releasing it and catching her ankle instead. I pull her legs across my lap, settling my hand high on her thigh.

“You don’t want me to hold you? Fine. I’m not holding you.” My thumb strokes once over the inside of her knee. “But you’re staying right fucking here.”

She glares at me.

“Now,” I say, meeting her glare without blinking. “What do you want?”

She inhales shakily. “I want to make bad decisions since the good ones haven’t brought me anything.” Her voice cracks at the end. “And I want answers.”

Something about the defiance in her voice has my palm itching. Fuck, I want to bend her over my knee and spank some of that attitude out of her almost as badly as I want to encourage every fucking second of it.

This version of Kira is new, and apparently my cock approves with the way it jerks in my pants. I watch her pour a third drink. Her hands are steady, which is surprising given how much whiskey is already in her system.

Or maybe it’s not surprising. Maybe Kira has the kind of resilience that shows up in the worst moments, the kind that keeps functioning when everything else has stopped.

“Dr. Morgan will give us answers in the morning,” I remind her, keeping my tone level even though I’m annoyed she won’t let me hold her.

Kira shrugs as her beautiful hazel eyes lock on mine. “Have you talked to Paolo?” she asks.

I frown at the abrupt change of subject. “Why are you asking about him?”

“Because I want answers, Domenico.”

Taking a sip of my whiskey, I let it sit on my tongue before I answer. “He’s in Chicago.”

“Chicago?” she asks, her eyes widening. “Why Chicago?”

“He’s staying with… relatives.”

“Who?”

I hesitate. “Someone he trusts.” It’s evasive, and we both know it. But I can’t tell her yet.

Her jaw tightens when I don’t elaborate. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

“It’s all you need.”

Sighing, she turns fully to face me, her knees pressing against my thigh. Her eyes are bright from the whiskey, and there’s a flush across her cheeks that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Why am I not allowed to know anything? Why do you hold everything back like it’s some big secret I’m not cleared for?”

The sharpness in her tone should irritate me. Nobody questions me like this. Instead, I have to shift slightly because my cock grows even harder.

“Some things are complicated, Kira.”

“Everything is complicated. That’s not an answer.”

I drain my glass and set it on the table. The whiskey is warm in my chest, but it’s not doing anything to dull the edge of this conversation. Kira’s leaning forward now, her hands braced on her knees, and the look on her face is the same one she gave Dr. Morgan—stubborn, unwavering, refusing to be dismissed.

“You know what I realized tonight?” she says. “Everything is your rules. Your house, your money, your people watching my mom. Your doctor evaluating her.” She laughs bitterly. “It’s even your whiskey I’m drinking while sitting on your couch.”

I know every your she throws at me is meant to sound like an accusation. But to the possessive part of me, it sounds like fucking music to my ears. Because Kira. Is. Mine.

Then she lifts my bottle to her lips and drinks straight from it, glaring at me over the rim, and my palm damn near twitches.

Lowering the bottle, she continues her tirade. “People even refer to me as your wife, Domenico—”

“You are my wife,” I growl, not amused by the exasperation in her tone.

The word hangs between us. Heavy. Loaded.

“But what about my wants, Domenico?” She pauses. “Or my rules?”