Chapter 20: Kira - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

My hand hits cold sheets before I’m fully awake. Pat, pat, pat. Nothing but empty space where Domenico should be.

I push myself upright, the bedroom dark except for the sliver of city light cutting through the gap in the curtains. A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s 4:37 am.

Annoyance hits before the memory does.

He promised. After our fight, after I screamed at him until my throat was raw, he promised he wouldn’t disappear without telling me. No more waking up to an empty bed and wondering where the hell my husband went.

But then I remember what he said about barely sleeping.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold under my feet, but I don’t bother with footwear. Instead, I grab the first thing my fingers find, one of Domenico’s button-down shirts that smells like him.

I shrug it on, buttoning the top buttons, and wrap the soft throw blanket from the foot of the bed around my body. There’s no point in bothering with more clothes when he has promised me only the staff is in the penthouse, and they usually make themselves scarce so I only see them during meal times. Besides, the shirt falls to mid-thigh, and the blanket covers the rest.

The hallway is dark, so I follow the faint yellow glow that spills from the living room. The sliding glass door to the balcony has been left open by a crack.

I push the door open and step outside.

October in Boston doesn’t mess around. The wind cuts through the blanket and the thin cotton of Domenico’s shirt as if they’re nothing, and I shiver, pulling the fabric tighter around my shoulders.

The heaters are doing their best—three of them mounted along the ceiling, casting warm circles of light across the terrace—but the air still has teeth.

Domenico sits directly beneath one of them.

He’s in a chair against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. I’m surprised that he’s dressed in his normal clothes, and not something like sweats after having already undressed for bed.

Then again, Domenico seems to wear suits 90% of the time.

Right now, though, his tie is undone, hanging loose around his neck, and his suit jacket is nowhere in sight. Just the white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the tattoos on his forearms visible even in the dim light.

A glass of amber liquid sits on the small table beside him, half-empty. A cigar rests between two fingers, the smoke curling up into the heater’s glow. And in his other hand, an old book with a cracked leather spine and pages that look like they might crumble if you turned them too hard.

He doesn’t look up when I step onto the balcony. Doesn’t need to. I know he heard me the second the door slid open.

Instead of asking if I can stay, I walk straight over to his chair and settle sideways across his lap, tucking my legs up and pulling the blanket around both of us. His body is warm through the shirt, solid and steady, and his arm moves automatically to circle my waist, holding me against his chest.

His surprise is quiet, but I feel it in the way his muscles tense for half a second before relaxing. His fingers tighten on my hip.

“You said you wouldn’t disappear,” I say. No preamble. Just the accusation, dropped between us like a stone.

Domenico looks at me. The heater light catches the silver at his temples, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. His eyes are dark in this light, almost black instead of blue.

“You were tossing and turning forever, baby.” His thumb brushes my hip through the blanket. “So I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Next time, wake me.”

He considers that. Nods once.

“How long have you been up?” I ask, curiously.

Sighing, he runs a hand down his face. “Almost three hours.”

“Wow.” The word comes out like an absentminded mutter.

“Do you want to talk about your mom?” he asks, completely changing the subject. His voice is careful. Measured. The way he talks when he’s trying not to push.

I immediately shake my head. “Not right now,” I say. “I just want to be here with you.”

Rather than pushing, he tightens his arm around my waist and takes a slow drag from the cigar. The smoke smells rich and woody, nothing like the cigarettes my dad used to smoke.

I reach for his whiskey glass and take a sip before he can stop me. The burn is immediate and vicious. Fire all the way down, pooling in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a lit match. I cough, eyes watering, and thrust the glass back at him.

“Yep,” I say as though I’m confirming something. “I still don’t like it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Then stop drinking it.”

“It tastes like paint thinner,” I add, scrunching up my nose.

He takes the whiskey back and finishes what’s left in one smooth swallow. Like it’s water. Like his throat isn’t made of the same tissue as mine.

I eye the book in his hand. The pages are yellowed, the text small and dense. “What are you reading?”

He holds it up so I can see the cover. The leather is cracked along the spine, the gold lettering faded almost to nothing.

“Is it good?” I ask.

“It’s four hundred years old and full of advice on how to maintain power through fear and manipulation.” He flips a page with one finger. “So yes. It’s very good.”

I snort. “Of course it is.”

The conversation shifts after that. I ask about his insomnia. How long it’s been part of his life.

“Since Paolo was born.” His voice doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. The arm around my waist gets tighter. “His mom suffered from postpartum depression, so I was often the one who fed him at night.” He pauses. “It never really went away.”

Oh God, that’s horrible. Poor… wait, I’m not even sure I know her name. But now I’m wondering even more why Domenico killed her. I should ask him, and maybe one day I will. If I’m ever not scared of what the answer might be.

After a while, the conversation lulls. The city stretches below us, dark and quiet, and the cold is starting to seep through the blanket despite the heater. I shift, as if I’m about to slide off his lap and head back to bed.

His hand catches my wrist. “Stay.”

Just that. One word, rough and quiet, and the look in his eyes is the same one I saw when I slapped him across the face. Not anger. Something deeper, rawer, that I still don’t have a name for.

“I want you here,” he adds.

The warmth behind my ribs blooms into something hotter. Bolder. I hold his gaze for one beat, two, and then I’m moving. Turning in his lap until I’m straddling him, my knees on either side of his thighs, the blanket falling away from my shoulders. His hands find my hips automatically, steadying me, and I don’t give him time to process what’s happening.

I kiss him.

My mouth finds his, and for a second, he goes completely still. Then his hands tighten on my hips, and he kisses me back with a hunger that makes my stomach drop. His scruff is rough against my skin, his mouth warm from the whiskey, and I taste cigar smoke and something darker underneath.

My fingers find the buttons of his shirt—the one he’s wearing, not the one I stole—and I work them open one by one, pushing the fabric aside to expose his chest. The tattoos. The coarse, dark hair. The ridges of muscle that flex under my palms when I slide my hands across his skin.

I kiss his jaw. His throat. The hollow at the base of his neck where his pulse jumps against my lips. Down to his chest, tracing the patterns of ink with my mouth, feeling the way his breathing changes—deeper, rougher, the controlled rhythm fracturing beneath my touch.

His hands are on my hips, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks, and the sound he makes when my teeth graze his nipple is… hot.

Something fierce curls in my stomach. This is mine. The loss of control, the broken breathing, the way his chest rises and falls under my mouth—all of it belongs to me.

And I want more.

I slide off his lap and kneel between his legs on the cold stone of the balcony. His eyes track the movement, dark and hungry, and I don’t break eye contact as my fingers find his belt. The leather slides through the buckle with a soft click, and then I’m working the button of his pants, dragging the zipper down with a sound that seems too loud in the quiet night.

Domenico helps. He lifts his hips, pushing the pants down his thighs along with his boxer briefs, and kicks off his shoes so I can pull everything free. His cock springs hard against his stomach, thick and flushed dark in the heater light.

The sight of it—of him—completely exposed while I’m still mostly covered, sends a sharp thrill through me.

I run my hands up his thighs first. The muscle is hard under my palms, warm despite the cold air, and I can feel the fine tremor that runs through him when my fingers brush the inside of his leg.

Domenico watches me. His eyes are dark, fixed on my face with an intensity that should make me nervous. It doesn’t. It makes me feel… desired. I lean forward and press my mouth to his stomach.

The skin is hot, taut over muscle, and I trace the ridges with my lips, following the trail of dark hair that narrows as it disappears beneath where my hands are resting on his hips. His abs tighten under my mouth, and the sound he makes—low, rough, almost a growl—sends a pulse of heat between my legs.

Since this isn’t about me, I ignore it for now.

I’ve wondered about this since I undressed him. Since my hand wrapped around his cock and I watched his control fracture for the first time. What it would be like to put my mouth on him.

To taste him. To learn the parts of Domenico DeLuca that he keeps locked down tighter than anything else. And now, I’m going to satiate that curiosity.

I kiss the head of his cock.

The contact is brief—just my lips pressed against the smooth, flushed skin—but the effect is immediate. Domenico’s entire body goes rigid. His hand shoots out and grips the arm of the chair hard enough that the wood creaks, and the noise that tears from his throat is like nothing I’ve heard from him before.

Raw. Unfiltered. The sound of a man whose control just took a direct hit.

“Mmm, fuck. Kira.”

Damn, that low and husky tenor is addictive.

I do it again. Longer this time. My lips part slightly, and I taste salt and musk and something uniquely him that has no comparison. His cock jumps against my mouth as I pull back just enough to look up at his face.

His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. His chest rises and falls in shallow, controlled breaths that aren’t controlled at all. And his eyes—Christ, his eyes are black in the heater light, fixed on my mouth with a hunger that probably would have scared me when we first got married.

Now, it feels like permission. Or maybe that’s just how I’m interpreting it.

“I’m going to lick you now, Daddy,” I purr as I do just that in a slow, flat stroke from base to tip that has his hips jerking forward before he forces them still.

“Kira.” My name comes out rough, strained.

I take the head into my mouth, just the very tip, and suck gently. The groan that rolls out of him vibrates through my lips, and I feel it everywhere—in my chest, between my legs, in the pit of my stomach where something hungry and possessive is waking up.

My hand wraps around what my mouth can’t take yet. He’s thick, so much thicker than my fingers can span, and the heat of him against my palm is almost overwhelming. I stroke slowly, matching the rhythm of my mouth, and watch his face the entire time.

I somehow catalog every reaction. From the way his nostrils flare when I swirl my tongue around the head, to the sharp intake of breath when my teeth graze him. The first time it happens it’s accidental. But the second time, it’s deliberate because the way his cock jumps against my tongue is too good to ignore.

The curse that tears from his throat when I take him deeper, just an inch, just enough to feel the stretch in my jaw. His hands stay on the arms of the chair, white-knuckled, and he watches me with those dark, hungry eyes while I explore him.

Every experiment gets a reaction. Every lick, every suck, every time my hand twists on the upstroke—something changes in his breathing, in the tension of his thighs. I’m mapping him. Learning what makes Domenico DeLuca come undone.

And, dear God, I love it.

Even though my jaw is already aching, I refuse to stop. I want more of this. More of him pulsing against my tongue. More of his restraint slipping. More of the way his hips have started moving in tiny, involuntary thrusts.

“Fuck, baby. Just like that. Your mouth… fuck!”

When his hand finds my hair, it isn’t gentle. His fingers twist into the dark strands at the base of my skull, gathering them into a fist that holds me steady, and the controlling nature of the grip sends a shudder through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

“Go slower,” he growls. The word is rough, commanding, and I obey without thinking.

Slowing my pace, taking him deeper on each stroke, using my tongue the way he showed me with his fingers—flat against the underside, pressing hard on the upstroke.

“Deeper. Look at me.”

I force my eyes up. Meeting his gaze while my mouth is stretched around his cock is almost too much—the intensity in his eyes, the raw hunger, the way his jaw is working like he’s holding on to his control by fucking threads.

Tears are gathering at the corners of my eyes from the stretch, and still, I take him deeper. Another inch, and the head hits the back of my throat. I pull back instinctively as I gag.

Domenico’s grip on my hair tightens. “Easy, baby. Breathe through your nose.”

The next time I take him deeper, I’m ready. The stretch is intense, my throat resisting then yielding, and the sound he makes when the head slips past that barrier is fucking primal. A groan so deep it seems to come from his chest, and his hips jerk forward before he forces them still.

“Good girl. Mmm, so fucking good for me.”

His hand in my hair tightens, and for a few glorious minutes, we find a rhythm—me taking him as deep as I can manage, him holding me steady, both of us learning the limits of what my mouth can do.

I’m dripping. I can feel it, the slick heat between my thighs, the way my inner walls clench around nothing every time Domenico groans. But this isn’t about me. This is about watching the most controlled man I’ve ever met come completely apart because of my mouth.

And he is coming apart. His thighs are trembling under my hands. His breathing is shattered. Every curse is rougher than the last, every sound of pleasure longer, and the way he’s holding himself back—hips barely moving, muscles locked—is its own kind of torture.

“Kira.” His voice is wrecked. “I’m close. Baby, I’m going to come.”

I don’t back off. I take him deeper, my hand working what my mouth can’t reach, and I look up at him with every intention written clear on my face.

Domenico’s control snaps, and his hand fists harder in my hair. Then he pulls me forward at the same time his hips drive up. His cock pushes into my throat in one brutal, overwhelming thrust, and I gag hard, tears springing to my eyes, my hands flying to his thighs for balance.

“Fuck, I’m sorry…” he starts, but I shake my head as much as his grip allows.

I don’t want him to stop, and he doesn’t.

The next thrust is slower, controlled despite everything, and he holds me there while my throat works around him. “Don’t forget to breathe through your nose,” he rasps. “You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good.”

The praise is rougher now, fractured by the rhythm of his hips. He’s fucking my face—there’s no other word for it—holding my head steady with that iron grip while he drives into my throat in shallow, measured thrusts that have me choking and moaning and loving every second of it.

“And don’t forget your safe word,” he grunts between thrusts. “Say it if it’s too much. Blue, Kira.”

Even if I wanted to, there’s no way for me to say that with his cock filling my throat.

“Squeeze my thigh once if you need me to let go,” he says, seeming to have reached the same realization I just had.

Even though I don’t mean to, I squeeze his thigh once. But when I feel him easing his grip, I squeeze him again and moan around his length so he knows I don’t want him to let go.

“I’m going to come,” he growls. “Fuck, Kira, I’m gonna…”

His hips jerk forward one final time, his cock buried to the hilt in my throat, and he comes with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped out of him.

“Ungh… shit! Mmm!”

Thick, hot pulses of his cum flood my throat, and I swallow reflexively, again and again, feeling each pulse against my tongue, tasting him as he empties himself down my throat.

Domenico holds me there until the last pulse fades, his hand still twisted in my hair, his cock still pressed deep, and the only sound is our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.

When he finally lets me pull back, I’m gasping, tears streaking my cheeks, my jaw aching and my throat raw. A strand of saliva connects my lower lip to the head of his cock for one obscene second before breaking.

My husband’s slumped in the chair, one hand still tangled loosely in my hair, his chest heaving, his eyes half-closed and dazed in a way I’ve never seen before. His tie is hanging loose around his neck, his shirt is hanging open where I unbuttoned it, and there’s a flush across his chest that spreads all the way to his throat.

I did that, and the pride that blooms in my chest is warm and fierce and entirely unrepentant.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and sit back on my heels, looking up at him with what I’m sure is a smug, satisfied smile spreading across my face.

Domenico looks down at me through hooded eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Come here,” he says, his voice rough. “Right now.”

Domenico’s arms are around me before I can process the command. He pulls me up from my knees and into his lap in one smooth motion, my legs straddling his thighs, and reaches for the blanket that fell to the stone during… everything.

The wool is cold against my skin, but he tucks it around both of us, his larger body warming the space between us. His cock is soft against my inner thigh, and the intimacy of that—him spent, relaxed, holding me against his chest while the city slowly changes color below us—sends a different kind of warmth through my chest.

The black is fading to gray. Not sunrise yet, but the promise of it—a thin line of lighter darkness along the eastern horizon, the buildings starting to separate from the sky.

“You really are perfect,” he rasps.

His mouth is on mine before I can answer. For once, there’s no urgency in the kiss. His tongue leisurely strokes mine, not caring one bit that I just swallowed his cum.

As he deepens the kiss, his hand finds my thigh under the blanket. It slides higher, fingers tracing the inside of my leg with deliberate pressure, and when they brush against the wet heat between my thighs, I grab his wrist.

“Not right now, Daddy,” I murmur against his mouth.

Domenico goes very still for one second. Two. Then his hand withdraws from between my legs without argument. His eyes find mine, searching, and for a second, I think I’ve hurt him.

“You’re saying no.” It’s not a question. His voice is rough, but there’s no anger in it. Just careful attention, the way he listens when something matters.

“I’m saying not right now.” I adjust myself in his lap, settling more comfortably against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. “I wanted to do that for you. Just for you. And now…” I gesture at the sky, at the thin line of light slowly thickening along the horizon. “… I want to sit here. In your lap. And watch the sun come up.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s considering. Domenico looks at me for a long moment, his blue eyes dark in the pre-dawn gray, and then his arm tightens around my waist.

“Okay,” he says. Simple. Final.

Something warm unfolds in my chest. I’ve spent most of my life negotiating. Making myself smaller, accommodating, finding the space between what I want and what someone else is willing to give. This—saying what I want and having it respected without a fight—is so new it almost hurts.

He tells me about a meeting he has later today, something with shipping containers and tariffs that I only half-understand but nod along to anyway because I like the sound of his voice when he’s not being careful with it.

The conversation lulls. The silence that follows is easy, the kind that doesn’t need filling. The gray thickens. Then it thins. And then, so slowly I almost miss the moment it happens, the gray turns gold.

The first real light hits the highest buildings first, painting them in pale gold that spreads downward like honey poured over stone. It’s not pretty in the way postcards are pretty. It’s raw. Messy.

The kind of sunrise that happens when the air is cold enough to hurt your lungs and the city hasn’t decided whether it wants to be beautiful today or just functional. But it’s real, and we’re watching it together. Something about that feels significant in a way I can’t articulate.

This is his solitude. The place he comes when sleep abandons him.

Suddenly acutely aware that I’m intruding on his alone time, I ask, “Did I ruin it?”

“Ruin what?”

“Your quiet.”

Domenico doesn’t answer right away. His hand strokes my back through the blanket, slow and steady, and I can feel him thinking. Measuring his words the way he always does, finding the exact ones he wants before he lets them out.

“The quiet is better with you in it.” Just a fact, delivered in that rough, measured voice that doesn’t know how to be anything but honest.

He’s quiet for another moment. The sunrise is spreading now, painting the rooftops in gold and throwing long shadows across the streets below. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.

“I’m getting fucking addicted to having you around, Kira.”

My heart stutters. I keep my eyes on the skyline, on the light moving across glass and brick, because if I look at him right now I might do something stupid like cry.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” I tease around a yawn.

Even though I don’t want to force more meaning into his words than what he’s giving me, I can’t help but wonder if this is the Domenico DeLuca seal of approval. It’s not like it’s a declaration of love, and I’m grateful for that. But it still matters, it still means something.

“Earlier you asked if I wanted to talk about Mom,” I whisper, determined to give him the same honesty he’s giving me.

“Mm.”

“I…” Trailing off, I absentmindedly pick at a hangnail on my left index finger. “Knowing she’s in Dr. Morgan’s hands has been a bigger relief than I ever imagined.”

Domenico doesn’t interrupt as I explain that having someone look after Mom is both a source of guilt and relief for me.

“It’s hard not to feel like I’ve abandoned her,” I sigh, squinting against the brightening sky. “But it’s also the first time since the accident that I’ve been able to… just be me.”

When Domenico suggests we go back inside, I’m not ready to leave his embrace, and I tell him as much. That earns me a genuine smile.