Second Chance Daddy: Broken Boss Daddies, page 18
This time it’s pride.
“Then marry me,” he says, voice low and final, a hand curling around my wrist, pulling me flush to him. “Marry me—and let them fucking try to take us.”
31
CASSIE
The thing about being raised around chaos? You can smell a setup a mile away.
Tina practically shoved me down the hall, whispering something about “go put that dress on and brush your damn hair,” which is suspicious on its own. The rain’s beating down so hard outside, I thought the roof might blow off, but no—apparently, I’m supposed to dress up like I’m crashing a gala.
I slip into the dress—the deep red one, silky, slinky, sinful, the slit cutting high up my thigh, the fabric hugging me like it was made for nights like this. Nights where everything changes.
My hands shake as I smooth the fabric down my sides, my heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
“What’s going on, Tina?” I pretend to grumble because where my mind is going. It could leave me disappointed. Better to imagine this isn’t what I think this is. “We can’t really go out in the rain, you know?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, bitch.” She reaches for my lips with bright red lipstick. “Besides, you’ve got to trust me. You wanna look good for this.”
So, I do.
My nerves? Shot. My heels? Higher than my self-confidence. But I go ahead and do what Tina asks with a fluttering heart.
Once she’s all done, she rushes me out the door. “Go wait in the living room,” she tells me. “I’ll be right there.”
Downstairs, the house is dark—except for the glow of candles. Roses everywhere. No guards, no Aria, no housekeepers. Not a soul. Just the storm pounding against the glass and the flicker of firelight.
And him.
Dante stands by the fireplace, all dark suit and danger, watching the flames like he could outburn them. When he hears me and turns, the air leaves my lungs.
“Christ, Cass.”
His eyes burn straight through me, lingering on the dress, the legs, the bare shoulders. His mouth curves in that slow, lethal smirk I hate loving.
I already know what this is. My pulse races for all the right, terrifying reasons.
He walks toward me, unhurried, the storm rumbling outside like even the sky knows what’s coming.
My knees nearly buckle when he takes my hand.
Then he drops to one knee.
The room tilts.
No ring. Just him. Dangerous, gorgeous, wrecked for me.
“I don’t have a ring as yet,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “But I’ve got a promise.”
My throat tightens.
“You’re mine, Cassie,” he murmurs, thumb skimming my wrist. “Always have been, always will be. You’ve lived in my head even when I was half a world away. Fighting this? Fighting us? It’s the only mistake I refuse to keep making. You gave me the one thing I never thought I’d have—a child, a family. I’ve failed you before, but I’ll spend every damn day proving I won’t fail you again. I’ll love you. Protect you. And as long as you’re by my side, no one touches what’s ours.”
The storm cracks overhead.
“Marry me, Cassie. Not because you have to. Not because you’re afraid. But because I want to build something with you that’s stronger than all the shit that’s tried to break us. What do you say?”
The world blurs around the edges.
And me? I stare at him, this man who’s torn my world apart more times than I can count, and realize I can’t live without him.
His eyes are locked on mine, burning with that intensity that makes my knees weak and my pulse race. His grip on my wrist tightens just enough to remind me he’s waiting for an answer.
“Yes,” I whisper as the tears begin to roll down my cheeks, the word punching out of me like it’s the first time I speak truth. “I’ll marry you.”
He stands, pulling me against him, mouth ghosting over mine.
“Want champagne?” His voice is teasing, cocky, and dangerous.
I look at the champagne, then back at him, heat pooling low in my belly. “I can think of better ways to celebrate.”
His eyes darken with understanding. “Is that right?”
I nod, stepping closer, my hands reaching for the collar of his shirt. “Much better ways.”
I yank him down into a kiss that’s messy, desperate, hungry.
Needless to say, we don’t celebrate with champagne.
Because that shit? It’s basic. Dante and I? We make our own fucking rules.
“I am going to get you a rock, you know? The biggest the world’s ever seen,” he whispers against my lips.
“For God’s sake, shut up.” I bite his lower lip, grazing my teeth against it. “I’ve never been the diamonds and white picket fence type anyway.”
His mouth curves into that devastating half-smile. “I’ll get you one anyway. Something that tells the world you’re mine.”
“I am, you know,” I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest. “Yours.”
He growls, and his fingers slide into my hair, pulling my neck up, only for him to slide his tongue in through my mouth. When he licks the ridges of my mouth, my toes fucking curl.
He’s hungry, carnal, like he’s been starving for years and tonight’s the first bite.
I whimper into the kiss, knees wobbling as his other hand slides down, gripping the curve of my ass through the slinky fabric. His fingers flex, bunching the silk up higher along my thighs, and I now start to wish the slit didn’t exist. The dress didn’t exist.
I want him, skin to goddamn skin.
We stumble back, knocking into the side table, sending one of the damn champagne glasses clinking to the floor. Neither of us cares.
He kisses me like I’m oxygen, lips bruising, teeth scraping, tongue slick and claiming, tasting every part of me like he paid for the privilege, which, honestly? He probably did with all this candlelight bullshit.
His hand snakes lower, gripping behind my knee, hitching my leg up along his waist. My heel digs into his back, and he groans, low and wrecked, grinding against me so hard my brain short-circuits.
I break the kiss, gasping, my lips swollen, my dress halfway to my hips. “Pool table?” I suggest, breathless, eyes wild.
His eyes spark, wicked and knowing, and before I can say another word, he walks me backward, step by step, toward the table. His mouth finds mine again, all tongue and heat, his free hand sliding up under the dress, fingers teasing higher with every pace.
We crash into the edge, my back arching, his body pinning me down.
“Celebration starts now,” he growls against my mouth—and I’m so ready to be unwrapped like his favorite fucking gift.
He growls like a beast fresh off the forest before yanking me back to him, his hands sliding down to grab my ass, lifting me onto the edge of the pool table like I weigh nothing.
Mama always said aim high—guess I landed myself six-foot-two of killer Bratva royalty with hands built for sin and a face I could stare at for the rest of my damn life.
Lucky me.
“Fuck civilized,” he mutters, lips grazing my neck, teeth teasing the spot beneath my ear. His voice is pure sin, vibrating straight through me.
I laugh breathlessly, the sound snapping into a gasp as his hands slide up my thighs, shoving my dress higher, fingers grazing naked skin, lingering where I’m already hot and aching.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I whisper, watching the heat darken his eyes.
His mouth crashes to mine—ravenous, messy, bruising. The taste of whiskey and Dante. The taste I never get enough of.
I shove his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric hitting the floor with a soft thud, my fingers working his buttons, desperate now, frantic for skin.
When I finally get his shirt open, my palms slide over hard muscle, the sharp lines of his chest, and the tattoos inked across his scarred skin like a warning—violent, dangerous, his story written right there for anyone stupid enough to question his power.
“My turn,” I breathe, sliding off the table, feet hitting the floor, heat coiling in my gut as his eyes track every move.
I push him back, slowly but deliberately, until he’s sitting on the edge of the table, that predator stare locked on me, daring me to keep going.
Never break eye contact. Not with him.
I sink to my knees, hands working his belt, teasing the zipper down, loving the way his jaw tightens, the muscle ticking like he’s barely holding it together.
His cock springs free—hard, heavy, leaking at the tip—and fuck, my mouth actually waters.
Big. Thick. Veins running the length of him, the kind of cock that ruins you for anyone else—like he was built to wreck me and only me.
I wrap my hand around him, feel the weight of him in my palm, the heat, the skin stretched tight over steel. His whole body tenses, abs flexing, chest rising, those lethal eyes dark and hungry.
But it’s the way he’s looking at me that undoes me—wild, possessive, completely wrecked—and for one sharp, dangerous heartbeat, I feel fucking powerful.
He’s this controlled, brutal man, feared by the world—yet here he is, standing over me, shaking, ready to snap for my mouth.
I lick my lips slowly, teasing the head, smirking up at him, never breaking the stare.
“Cassie…” His voice is a low, strained warning.
“Shhh,” I murmur, leaning in, taking him between my lips, swallowing him down, loving how his eyes darken, his hand tightening in my hair as I own every filthy second.
The storm outside crashes harder, thunder rolling through the walls, lightning flashing across his wrecked expression.
But inside? Just us. Just heat. Just the wet sound of my mouth taking him deep, working him slow, teasing the head, hollowing my cheeks as I swallow him down, loving the way his thighs flex under my hands.
“Fuck,” he groans, hips jerking slightly, his grip tightening, just holding on like I’m the only thing tethering him to the ground.
I pop my throat around him, swallowing deep, the vibration ripping another curse from his lips, his hand fisting tighter in my hair.
“Fuck, Cassie…”
I flatten my tongue along the underside of his cock, dragging him in deeper, until I feel the thick weight of him pushing past the back of my throat. My eyes water, jaw stretching wide, spit slicking my lips—messy, filthy, perfect.
He growls, his thighs tensing as I work him harder, bobbing my head fast now, one hand gripping his base, twisting, stroking in rhythm with every desperate, sloppy suck.
The power coils low in my belly, watching him unravel, this man the world fears, reduced to shaking for my mouth, holding on by a thread.
“Goddamn…fuck,” he bites out, his hips jerking.
I hum around him, cheeks hollowing, spit dripping down my chin as I take him deep, again, again, loving the choked sound that tears from his throat.
His grip tightens, yanking my head back just as his body locks up, every muscle trembling with restraint.
“Stop,” he snarls. “If you want me inside you—fuck—stop now.”
His cock pulses against my lips, so close, so wrecked, but I obey, pulling off slowly, licking the head just to tease him one last time.
The look on his face? Possession. Pure, filthy, desperate possession.
“Table,” he growls, grabbing my wrist. “Now.”
And I already know—this is gonna hurt in all the best ways.
Still on my knees, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smirking up at him.
I rise, but before I can climb onto the table, his hands are on me, spinning me around, bending me over the edge, my cheek flush to the cold felt, my dress shoved to my waist in seconds.
“No panties?” His voice is rough, nearly breaking. His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me soaked and ready. “Fuck, Cass. You like to be a tease, don’t you?”
I glance over my shoulder, flashing him a wicked smile, breathless. “Maybe.”
Then his palm cracks across my ass—sharp, rough, the sting blooming through my skin, making me gasp.
“Smart mouth,” he groans, gripping my hips, yanking me back against him and grinding his cock along my soaked folds.
His hands slide down, strong fingers gripping my inner thighs, shoving my legs wider, forcing me open, exposed, trembling against the table.
“Wider.”
I stretch for him, heart hammering, body burning as he spreads me for his ruin.
His fingers sink inside me without warning, two, then three, fucking me rough with his hand as his thumb circles my clit, slow and lethal.
“Dante,” I gasp, hips rolling, my body chasing more, the pressure coiling tight in my belly.
“What, Cass?” he taunts, voice sharp, fingers curling inside me.
“I need you,” I whimper. “Please.”
His fingers withdraw, and I groan at the loss, but then I feel him, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, teasing, heavy.
“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, running his hand over the curve of my ass, down between my legs, fingers gliding through the slick mess I’ve made for him. “You’re soaked. All this for me?”
I nod, wrecked, shaking, pressing back against his hand, desperate for more, for all of him.
“Then take every inch,” he snarls, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing to my entrance, teasing—just for a second—before he pushes in just enough to make me ache.
“Yes.” My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. “God, yes.”
He thrusts forward, burying himself deep, stretching me wide, filling me completely, the delicious edge between pain and bliss making my vision blur.
“Christ,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”
He stills, letting me adjust, my body pulsing, stretched, full. Then he starts to move, slow, brutal, deep thrusts that have me gasping, legs trembling, my cheek pressed to the table as the storm outside matches our rhythm.
The table creaks beneath us, skin slapping, our moans filling the space.
I rise onto my elbows, changing the angle, nearly crying out when he hits that spot deep inside me that has my vision fracturing at the edges.
“There?” His voice is pure wreckage, slamming into me again, hitting that perfect place.
“God—yes,” I gasp, grinding back against him, chasing every punishing thrust. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
His pace turns savage, hips snapping, one hand gripping my hair, tugging just enough to arch my back, forcing my body open for him.
“Mine,” he snarls, the word jagged, raw, dangerous. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I cry, my walls clenching, my orgasm building fast, impossible to outrun. “Always yours.”
His hand snakes down, fingers finding my clit, circling in perfect rhythm as he fucks me harder, deeper, until the pressure explodes, and I come apart—body locking down, stars bursting behind my eyelids, his name ripped from my throat.
I barely register him slamming into me one last time, groaning my name like a prayer, his release hot, deep, all inside me.
We stay like that, gasping, shaking, his chest pressed to my back, the storm easing outside, replaced by the sound of our ragged breathing.
Finally, he pulls out, helping me stand on shaky legs, scooping me into his arms, carrying me to the couch.
We collapse together, tangled up like threads. His lips press to my temple, his body wrapped around mine.
“I love you,” he whispers against my skin, the words rough, ruined, completely real. “I’d die for you.”
The air leaves my lungs. The storm’s gone, but the mark he leaves behind on my soul? Permanent.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
32
DANTE
The wind slices off Lake Michigan like a blade. An empty parking lot stretches ahead, the concrete still wet from last night’s rain, and the grey Chicago sky stretches overhead.
There are no pedestrians. No cars. Just us.
It’s the perfect backdrop for a meeting like this.
I lean against the black SUV, watching the horizon while my sister paces beside me, boots tapping against the asphalt like a metronome of nerves.
Tina tugs her jacket tighter. “Last chance to bail,” she mutters. “You step back in; there’s no halfway.”
“Already made my choice.”
Truth is? I never really stepped out. Blood this deep, you don’t wash off. You either drown in it… or learn how to swim better than everyone else.
Engines hum in the distance.
Three black cars crawl onto the lot, windows tinted darker than a moonless night, plates scrubbed clean. Bratva underbosses from within the family—men I’ve known, some I’ve bled beside, others I’ve buried friends because of.
They step out one by one. My uncle Mikhailov, grey hair slicked back, leather gloves like he’s still straight out of Moscow’s coldest years. Cousin Kiril, tall, snake-eyed, with that faint scar along his jawline— a souvenir from a bar fight that nearly got him executed. And the others, wolves in tailored suits.
All watching me.
I push off the SUV, boots crunching gravel as I cross the lot. My hands stay loose by my sides. No gun visible—but they know better than to think I’m unarmed.
“Nephew,” Mikhailov’s voice is as rough as sandpaper. “Your father sends word. The time has come.”
“I heard.”
Tina falls in beside me, silent, unreadable. But her presence? It anchors me. They know she’s my shadow, my sister, my existence. They know she’s now eyes for my father, in on the dealings. They know crossing her means crossing us all.
Mikhailov wastes no time. “You’ll step in. Lead the western operations. Expand the empire. Your family’s legacy depends on it.”
I nod once. “I’m in.”
Kiril arches a brow, waiting for the catch. Smart bastard.
