Chapter 8: Domenico - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

Kira’s dad sits across from me with the plaster cast on his wrist resting on his knee. The sport coat he’s wearing has been pressed within an inch of its life, but the fraying at the collar betrays him. Just like the shoes, polished to a shine that can’t hide the worn-down heels.

Despite the pleasant temperature in my office, he’s sweating. Not the kind that beads and rolls, but the kind that seeps, turning the collar of his shirt dark where it meets his neck. This man truly is pathetic.

When I finally can’t handle staring at him any longer, I say, “You wanted to talk, Harry.”

“Yes, Mr. DeLuca.” He clears his throat, shifting the cast on his knee. “It’s about the last payment for my daughter. Err, for Kira. Your wife.”

I say nothing. Let him fill the silence. Men like Harry can’t help themselves—they talk when they should listen, explain when they should shut the fuck up.

“I wasn’t sure if my original agreement with Paolo still stands.” His eyes dart to the window behind me, then back to my face. “You know, since, uh, circumstances changed—”

“Kira married me instead.” I keep my voice flat. “Yes, I was there.”

He laughs, a small, nervous sound that dies the moment it hits the air between us. “Of course. I just meant… the terms. Whether they’re the same.”

What is it with the Adams family wasting time dancing around a subject instead of just spitting it out? I’m beginning to see where his daughter gets it from.

“The terms,” I repeat, and watch him nod too quickly. “You mean the money.”

“Well, yes. And the conditions.”

I lean back in my chair, one hand flat on the desk, the other resting on the arm. “Talk me through the arrangement you made with my son.”

Technically, the agreement was with me. Or at least with my money. But Paolo set his own terms, negotiating with Harry by himself. I wanted my son to take it seriously, so I only demanded that he accept the deal. The rest was up to him.

Now I wish I’d stayed more involved. Because I’m honestly not sure what they agreed on.

Harry stammers his way through explaining the amount he sold Kira for. A measly five hundred thousand, with two-fifty already paid. And apparently, the marriage was only supposed to last for ten years.

Once the time was up, Paolo could either pay for another ten years or give Kira back to her dad. Since I know my son isn’t a bad negotiator, this tells me he wanted a way out from the beginning.

Fucking fool. That’s not how DeLuca marriages work.

“Are you here for the rest of your money, Harry?” I ask, cutting off whatever he was saying. I don’t have fucking time for this to take all day.

“Well, as I’m sure you know, the remainder is contingent on certain, err, conditions being met.”

“Which is?”

His voice drops, becoming careful in the way men’s voices do when they’re about to say something stupid. “Paolo made the last payment contingent on the marriage being consummated.”

The room doesn’t change temperature. The air doesn’t shift. But something in me goes still, the way a predator goes still before the strike.

“Why don’t you repeat that?” I growl.

He hears the danger. I watch it register in his eyes—the widening, the sudden tightness around his mouth. His hands come up, the cast waving between us like he’s surrendering.

“I didn’t mean… that came out wrong. I just meant, you know, for the arrangement to be complete, traditionally speaking—”

“You’re walking on very thin fucking ice, Harry,” I inform him, my tone cold. “So I suggest you use your words correctly. Say nothing you aren’t prepared to defend and stand by.”

“Kira knows the score,” he’s quick to say.

I absorb this without moving. Without changing expression. My jaw tightens beneath the skin, but that’s the only tell. The rest of me looks calm, still, watching him dig his own grave with each word.

“She’s a practical girl,” Harry continues, and I can see him trying to salvage this, to frame it as something reasonable. “So, if there’s, you know, a problem, or she’s not cooperating—”

“Stop,” I roar, slamming my fist into the desk so hard everything rattles. “You will show respect for your daughter, for my wife, when you speak about her or anything involving her. Even if it’s the deal where you sold her. Especially in her own home.”

He blinks. “I didn’t mean any disrespect—”

“You meant exactly what you said.” I lean forward, just enough. “Let me be clear, Harry. I own her now. Not you. Me. And I will take as long as I fucking please.”

He swallows thickly, but wisely keeps his goddamn mouth shut.

“There’ll be no ten year countdown. Kira’s mine. Now and for as long as I fucking please. Do you understand?”

He nods.

“So, if you charge five hundred thousand for ten years, and she’s twenty-one. Hmm…” Trailing off, I do the rest of the math in my head. Say she lives until she’s one hundred, that’s another seventy-nine years. Rounded up to eighty because I’m a nice fucking guy. “That means I should pay you four million in total,” I tell Harry.

His eyes widen and I wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard just creamed his pants after hearing that number. “A-are you sure?” he asks.

See, this is what I mean. The idiot should quit while he’s ahead.

“Well,” I drawl. “Obviously, I’ll need to deduct what you’ve already been paid.”

“Of course, of course.”

“One more thing.” I tap the desk once. “I’m taking over your wife’s medical expenses directly. It seems Kira enjoys visiting her mom, and I like my wife happy. So I won’t risk you doing something… stupid.”

“What?” The word escapes him before he can catch it. “You mean you’ll… pay for it?”

“Sure,” I agree with a nod. “There’s no reason you have to deal with any of that hassle anymore. Why don’t I have someone draw up some papers so we can take it off your plate?”

Harry’s so eager for this to work out to his benefit that he never bothers to ask any questions. The idiot is blinded by the prospect of getting even more money, which is something I can use to my benefit.

While he continues to tell me how much this helps him and how grateful he is, I text one of the judges on my payroll with instructions to approve the paperwork I’ll send his way later.

Once his confirmation comes through, I send a message to one of the lawyers who works for the DeLuca business. I order him to find a way to challenge Paige Adams’ Medical Power of Attorney so Harry isn’t the one in charge anymore.

When he texts me back and tells me he’s on it, he also asks who I want to be in charge of Paige Adams. I quickly type out a reply and tell him to take Gio with him when he goes to get Harry’s signature tonight.

That way Gio can drop it off at the judge’s house later. I don’t text that last part, just think it to myself.

“Right, well, since we agree I should pay moving forward, there’s nothing more to discuss,” I state brusquely.

I’m aware I’m cutting Harry off, and abruptly changing the subject back to where it needs to be. Luckily for me, the man doesn’t care one bit when he thinks it means he’s about to get paid. For his daughter. This motherfucker is something else.

Harry’s greedy eyes sparkle with satisfaction. “Sounds good, Mr. DeLuca. Um, well, Domenico, I mean, we’re family after all.” He slaps his stomach as he laughs heartily at his own joke.

I let him enjoy what he thinks is coming for all of ten seconds. Then I say, “So, just to make sure we’re on the same page, I’ll pay for your wife’s hospital stay.”

“I’m so grateful—”

“And then I’ll deduct it from what I owe you,” I clarify, not caring one fucking bit that I’m interrupting him again.

In fact, I smirk as I watch the color drain from his face.

“That way I can be sure Kira gets what she bartered her body away for.” I take a deep breath. “And since you’re so concerned about everything being done correctly, I’ll even have an amended contract drawn up and delivered to you tonight. That way, everything’s done correctly. It was good of you to come here and make sure I was aware of everything, Harry.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“But Mr. DeLuca,” he argues. He’s sweating profusely now, and I really hope none of it lands on my desk. “Th-that wasn’t the agreement.”

“The agreement,” I say slowly, “is whatever I say it is.”

He knows better than to argue. I watch him process it—the loss of control, the money slipping through his fingers, the realization that he came here for leverage and left with less than he had.

He stands, adjusting his sport coat with his good hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. DeLuca.”

I refuse to answer as I watch him cross to the door, open it, and step through. The latch clicks behind him.

Alone, I press my knuckles to the surface of the desk and stare at the grain in the wood. The office is quiet, too fucking quiet for what I’ve just realized. If I’m right, I should beat his pathetic ass.

“I know I should let you fuck me now.”

Kira’s words from the day after our wedding spring to the front of my mind. I knew there was more to her should. But… this. Her dad’s fucking pressuring her… I know I shouldn’t be surprised after she told me why she agreed to the marriage.

My jaw aches from holding it shut. Part of me wants to track down Harry and eliminate him from her life once and for all. Another wants to go to the hospital and demand Kira tell me exactly what her dad made her do.

But I already know I’m not going to do either. Harry’s safe until I know whether or not Kira wants him gone permanently. And as for my wife, I want her to tell me this. I want her to trust me enough to tell me without me taking it.

My phone buzzes on the desk. Vinny’s name lights up the screen, and something in my chest tightens before I even answer.

“Boss.” His voice is clipped, professional.

“Talk.”

As Vinny tells me about Kira’s run-in with Greg, I clench my jaw so tight that I wouldn’t be surprised if my molars crack. He fucking scared her and that’s unacceptable.

“… she said she was afraid she’d get into trouble,” Vinny continues.

The phone creaks in my grip. I force my fingers to relax before the screen cracks.

“Keep her at the hospital until you hear from me.”

I end the call. Set the phone down. Count to three. One. Two. Three. Fuck it, that’s enough. I pick up my phone again and text Gio, telling him to bring Greg to the penthouse. Now.

While I wait for my second-in-command’s confirmation, I shrug my jacket off and hang it on the back of my chair. It feels constricting with how angry I am right now. First, Harry tested my patience, and now this shit.

Gio’s reply comes as I roll my sleeves up to the elbow. The tattoos on my forearms catch the light—black and gray patterns that mean something only to me. I cross to the bar cart in the corner of the office and pour some whiskey into a glass.

It burns, deliciously so, while going down. Good. I pour myself another drink, forcing my mind to calm the fuck down. But it’s fucking hard to do with this level of insult.

One of my men scared my wife. In my house. In her home.

The audacity of it crawls under my skin like something alive. Have I become so motherfucking lax that my own men think they’re welcome to whatever woman they find in my home? I know Greg wasn’t at the wedding, but surely rumor spread fast enough for him to know I married Kira.

Greg had better not have touched her. The thought is a cold stone in my gut. If he laid a finger on her, there won’t be enough of him left to identify. Needing to know exactly what happened, I pull up the security feed from the night of the wedding, fast-forward through the empty hours until I see movement.

There she is. Kira.

Walking down the hallway in that black lace, barefoot, calling my name. The camera catches the way she holds herself, the quick glances over her shoulder. Then Greg appears, moving toward her with a lazy grin.

“Hello there, kitten. Are you lost?”

“Who are you?” She takes a step backward.

“I’m much more interested in who you are. Are you one of the Don’s whores? Because if you are, you should know he often lets us have his leftovers.”

I watch her face, seeing the exact moment she realizes she’s not safe. The little scream she lets out is barely audible. Then she turns and runs back to the bedroom. Greg watches her go, his grin wide, and the second she slams the bedroom door, he licks his lips and laughs darkly.

Luckily for him, he doesn’t follow. But it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

Why the fuck didn’t she tell me? Oh, right. Greg led her to believe I share my women, which I don’t. Never have and never fucking will. Besides, I’ve never brought women around here before.

Paolo and I moved into this penthouse after his mom wasn’t around anymore. And the only women who’ve ever entered this place are the staff and a few of Paolo’s fuck buddies, as he called them. And even that only lasted long enough to move him into the apartment below.

As for me, I would go to one of my other buildings when I wanted to get my dick wet. And again, I. Never. Fucking. Shared. So it seems like Greg’s either delusional or has grown too complacent in his role. I’m not sure I care which.

Closing the footage, I move over to the window. I watch the city below, counting minutes until Gio arrives. Luckily, it doesn’t take long before the elevator chimes and I hear voices in the entryway. I leave the office and go to meet them in the hallway.

As soon as I enter, Greg grins at me. “Hey, Boss. What’s up?”

What’s up? Is this joker kidding me? Unable to ignore the anger coursing through my veins, I ball my hand into a fist and hit him. One punch, straight to the nose. I feel the cartilage give way, the warm spray of blood across my knuckles.

He goes down hard, catching himself on one hand, the other pressed to his face. Blood pours between his fingers, dripping onto the oak floor. Gio steps back, surprised. To his credit, he doesn’t ask questions or betray that he has no clue what’s going on or why Greg’s in trouble.

“What the fuck?” Greg’s voice is muffled behind his hand. “What did I do?”

“You need to ask?” I snarl. “That’s not good for you.”

“I-is this a-about…”

“Yes?” I prompt as he stops talking.

When he doesn’t continue, I kick him hard in the ribs. He folds with a sound that’s half groan, half whimper.

“T-the woman,” he wheezes. Ahh, so he knows how he fucked up. At least that’s something. “I didn’t know that was your wife.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter if you knew.” My voice is more snarl than anything else. “If you’ve done it once, you’ve done it before. Thinking you’re entitled to things that aren’t yours. People who aren’t yours.”

“N-never one of y-yours,” he cries.

I scoff, unimpressed. “Because unlike what you told my wife, I never bring women around here. And I certainly don’t share them.” I crouch down, bringing my face level with his. “And even if I did share, Greg, it would never be with someone like you. Are we clear?”

His breathing is ragged, shallow. “Y-yes.”

“You frightened my wife,” I say. “In my house. The only reason you’re still breathing is because you didn’t touch her.” I watch the blood trail down his chin. “You’re going to apologize to her. When she gets here, you’re going to get on your knees and you’re going to beg her for forgiveness.”

He’s shaking. Whole body trembling. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words wet with blood. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t…”

I hit him again. “Did I not just say you have to apologize to her? Not me. Her. And whether you’re alive to see the sun rise tomorrow depends on her mercy. If it were up to me, Gio would already be putting your worthless corpse in a body bag.”

Standing, I tell Gio to zip-tie Greg’s wrists behind him and stay with him in the entryway until Kira returns with Vinny. Then I text the latter and let him know he can bring my wife back home.

While we wait, I wash my hands in the kitchen sink. The blood turns the water pink, then clear. I dry my knuckles on a dish towel. Someone scared what’s mine. In my house. The thought circles like a shark, feeding on something dark and hungry in my chest.

I’ve built an empire on discipline, on control, on the understanding that my people follow orders or they suffer. And yet, here we are. My wife alone in a hallway, running from a man who works for me.

Fuck, I hope she wants Greg dead. No one scares my wife but me, and I’d love to make him an example.

Checking my phone, I open the tracking app, the one linked to the phone I gave Kira. The dot appears on the map—moving, getting closer. She’s in the garage. Just as I realize that, the elevator moves, and I know it’s on its way to the garage where she waits with Vinny.

I’m back in the hallway, standing right behind Greg just as the elevator dings and the door slides open. Kira laughs at something, telling Vinny she’ll have to try it someday. There’s still a smile on her lips as she steps out of the car.

She opens her mouth, but as soon as she sees Greg, bloody and on his knees, she screams and jumps back. “Oh my God!” She slaps her hand over her mouth as the color drains from her face.

I watch her take in the sight before her: the blood on the floor and Greg’s slumped form.

“Greg has something he’d like to say to you,” I inform my wife, kicking Greg.

He lifts his head, showing her the blood that has crusted around his nostrils, down to his chin. His voice comes out cracked, wet, barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry for frightening you, Mrs. DeLuca. It won’t happen again. I swear.”

Kira looks down at him with pity and tears filling her beautiful hazel eyes. “W-what’s the meaning of this?” she asks, looking up at me after a lengthy silence.

“Do you accept his apology?” I ask.

“What?”

Bending down, I grab the back of Greg’s neck and squeeze. “It seems my wife isn’t clear on why you’re apologizing. Try again.”

Greg stammers out another apology, and this time, he makes sure to include all his sins as well as the night it happened. Even though he’s rushing through the explanation, he’s being thorough.

I look up at my wife, noting how much she’s trembling. “Do you accept his apology or not?” I ask again.

“Domenico,” she breathes, lifting her gaze to mine. “W-why did you do this?”

“Answer the question.”

“Y-yes,” she whispers. “I accept.”

“Get him out of here,” I say to Vinny and Gio. “Clean him up. Then take him to Siberia. Greg’s back to working the streets.”

They know I’m not literally talking about Siberia, as in Russia. In fact, it’s probably worse. Because now he’s back to being a street rat, stripped of his rank, his access, and every privilege he earned climbing through my organization.

He’ll collect debts, watch corners, run errands, and do whatever shit job gets handed to him. There’ll be no penthouse access, no cushy assignments, and definitely no respect. Greg’s back on the bottom rung until I decide he’s suffered enough to start climbing again.

Or have him killed.

Greg gets to his feet with Gio’s help, unsteady, blood dripping onto his shirt. Vinny holds the elevator until they’re all inside. I stay still until the doors close behind them.

Kira hasn’t moved at all. Her hands are still trembling—I can see it from here, the fine shake in her fingers. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, bitten white.

“Are you okay?” I ask, crossing to where she’s standing.

“S-stop.” She holds her hand up and takes a step backward. “Don’t come any closer, Domenico.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

She swallows audibly. “Give me a moment to process.”

“No.”

“Why not?” She takes another step back for each one I take forward. “Please let me… I can’t adjust this fast.”

I don’t stop until she’s pressed herself against the wall, which she realizes with a startled yelp. Then I wrap one arm around her and pull her into my chest. Her body is warm against mine, smaller than I remember.

“You don’t get to have space from me,” I rasp. “If you have questions, ask them. But I’m not going to leave you alone to make up scenarios in your head.”

“How can I make anything up when I don’t even know what happened?” she challenges in a small voice. When I don’t answer, she sighs. “Why was he bleeding?”

“Because I punched him,” I reply matter-of-factly.

“Why?”

“He scared you.”

“So you did it for me?”

I shake my head. “No. That was definitely for me,” I clarify. “No one touches what’s mine, and you’re my wife.”

“But he didn’t touch me,” she argues.

“And that’s why he’s still breathing.”

She makes a frustrated sound. “So you’re going to beat up anyone who does something you don’t like?”

I frown at her. “He acted like you were here for him. Like he had a right to you—”

“Exactly,” she interrupts, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Whatever he did, he did it to me. So shouldn’t I be the one who gets to decide if he needs to be… punched?”

I laugh darkly. “My sweet, innocent wife. No, that’s not how it works.” I wrap a lock of her hair around my index finger. “I asked if you accepted his apology, and if you’d said no, I would have killed him. However, you said yes. So now he gets to live. So you had a say.”

“That’s not…” Pausing, she looks away. “That’s insane.”

I tip her chin up with my thumb and briefly press my lips to hers in a small kiss. Her lips are soft, yielding, and she kisses me back—not eagerly or passionately, but enough to let me know she’s present.

When I pull away, her eyes are closed. She opens them slowly.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Her brow furrows. “For hitting him?”

“No.” I keep my hand on her chin, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “For letting him be here. For letting anyone be here who could frighten you.”

I can see her working through it, the same way I watched Harry dig his grave—except Kira’s building something, not destroying it.

“I was worried,” she says finally. “When I told Vinny, I thought I’d get in trouble.”

The words land differently than anything else she could have said. They settle in my chest like something cold and heavy. Not anger. Something worse.

“You don’t get in trouble because someone else fucks up,” I say. “That’s not how this works.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

While holding her, I explain that I’ll change the access to the penthouse so she’ll only see the staff, Gio, and Vinny around. “I’ll even make sure most of my meetings are downtown,” I add.

“Why?” she asks. Though the question irks me, it doesn’t feel like she’s asking to be difficult.

“This is your home, Kira,” I explain. “You shouldn’t be scared in your own home.”

Her voice is so quiet I almost miss it: “But what if you’re the one I’m scared of?”