Second Chance Daddy: Broken Boss Daddies, page 9
Her body arches under me, wild and wrecked, those gorgeous curves rolling up to meet every brutal thrust like she’s chasing the end of the world—and hell, I’m giving it to her.
Her breasts bounce with every slam of my hips, flushed and perfect, soft peaks begging for my hands. I lean down, mouth closing over one, biting just enough to make her moan that filthy, broken sound that wrecks my last thread of control.
“Look at you,” I rasp, dragging my hand up her ribs, gripping her hip, holding her down when she tries to lurch off the counter from how deep I’m driving into her. “Fucking falling apart for me.”
The marble shudders beneath us, the whole counter rattling like the damn house might give out—but I don’t stop.
“You were made for this,” I grind out, pace brutal now, hips pistoning like every thrust’s got my name branded on it. “Made for me.”
She tries to answer, but all that comes out is a wrecked sob of my name—broken, breathless, dripping with need.
Her body clenches tighter, that sweet, sinful heat wrapping around me, her thighs trembling where they lock around my waist. I know that look—know the way her lashes flutter, the way her nails scrape down my spine. She’s close—so close she can barely breathe.
“Come for me,” I demand, voice sharp, rough, possessive as hell. “Wanna feel you lose it, Cass.”
And she does—God, she does. Her body seizes under mine, thighs quaking, back arching clean off the counter, those filthy little curses tumbling from her mouth, breath jagged, eyes glazed as she falls apart completely for me.
The sight of her breaking, the sound of my name on her lips? It wrecks me. I slam into her one final time, deep, hard, brutal—and I lose it, my release hitting like a freight train, hips stuttering as I bury myself to the hilt, groaning low.
We stay like that—tangled, breathless, wrecked.
Finally, I straighten and ease out of her gently. Her eyes are dazed, her lips swollen from kissing, her hair a mess. She’s never looked more beautiful.
I cup a cheek in my hand, press a softer kiss to her lips. “You okay?”
She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Then it fades, replaced by something more serious.
“I wish I could tell you everything,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine.
I brush my thumb over her cheekbone, feeling something heavy settle in my chest. “Me too.”
13
CASSIE
Jesus Christ, I’m the walking PSA your mama warns you about—the dumbass who falls straight back into bed with the man who left her once and signs up for round two like it’s some loyalty rewards program.
Somehow, I made it from his kitchen counter to my bedroom. Don’t ask me how. My brain’s still recalibrating what his mouth did to me… from the way his hands rearranged my DNA.
I scooped Aria off Dante’s leather couch, tucked her into bed, and sprinted to my room like a quiet thief in the night—because one more second around him? I’d have made the same stupid mistake twice.
And now I feel hollowed out, like someone scraped my insides clean and stitched skin over the mess. That’s what Dante does to me—he wrecks my body so bad I forget what it used to feel like when it was just mine.
The worst part? I want him. I want him so bad my molars ache. But the guilt? It’s coming in hot, rolling in like tidal waves, each one higher than the last.
I stare at the ceiling, throat tight, heart doing somersaults against my ribs. The words hover, heavy, life-ending: She’s yours. Aria’s yours. I’ve lied to everyone.
God, I’m such a coward.
It’s been two days. Forty-eight hours of reliving the sex, marinating in my bloodstream while I try to remember how to breathe without thinking of his hands on me.
I can’t breathe right. Can’t sleep right. Can’t look Dante in the eye without hearing the lie rattle between my ribs like loose change. The truth festers in my chest, coiled tight around my heart, squeezing every time I watch him with her.
He’s everywhere lately. In the kitchen, hovering by the coffee pot. Out in the backyard, teaching Aria how to toss a damn baseball. The kid I know is more of an indoor girl. But she loves it, loves him.
And I’m drowning in it.
She giggles when he lifts her high, tiny hands clutching his shoulders for safety. He calls her “Nugget” now. His voice is low, soft, and all rough-edged affection that makes my throat burn.
I go looking for Aria one evening after I drag my exhausted ass home from Honey & Hearth. Tina’s been a sweetheart—practically bullied me into letting her watch Aria so I could work—but the house is way too quiet when I walk in.
I can’t find Aria, so I walk through the house.
What I see lands me straight in a parallel universe I clearly wasn’t prepared for.
There they are.
In Dante’s office.
My three-year-old perched on his chair like she owns the damn place, stuffed animals lined up in front of her, plastic teacups scattered across his desk.
And him—six-foot-something broody, tattooed, walking-heartbreak—sitting there like it’s the most normal thing in the world, pink tiara totally on his head.
I finally look at him—a mistake. Big mistake. He’s in a soft gray t-shirt that clings to every muscle, hair damp like he just showered, jaw dark with stubble. And when our eyes meet?
Zap.
Like touching a live wire. My skin prickles, my heart stutters, and everything low in my body clenches in memory.
He smirks, the bastard, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Welcome back, Cass.” He grins at me.
I hover in the doorway and look away, throat tight. “Hey, nugget—maybe we should let Dante work—”
His eyes cut to me, sharp, steady, and impossible to argue with. “Cass.” His voice drops an octave, all warning and dark velvet. “Stop.”
My kid pretends she didn’t hear me. Knows Dante’s the real power here.
“More tea, Your Highness?” Aria asks, wielding her plastic teapot with regal authority.
“Yes, please, Princess Aria,” he responds, completely straight-faced, like this is a state dinner instead of a toddler’s fantasy.
I watch from the doorway, tears burning behind my eyes, throat so tight I can barely swallow.
He would’ve been there from the beginning if I’d told him. He would’ve watched her take her first steps and heard her first words. He would’ve been her dad, not Gino with his anger issues.
Thank God I pulled her away in time, at an age where the bad memories won’t stick.
The guilt is a living thing now, clawing at my insides, stealing my breath, making me dizzy with its weight. I stand at the door with my arms crossed tight, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to untangle the mess I’ve made.
I turn around and walk away, knowing that with Dante, Aria’s safe.
Aria curls into me that night, her head on my chest, her tiny hand fisting the fabric of my shirt. Her voice is barely a whisper against the dark.
“Mommy… Is Dante my other daddy?”
My heart stops dead in my chest. “W-what?” I stammer, buying time, feeling the room spin around me.
“Tommy at daycare says everyone has a daddy,” she explains, so matter-of-fact it hurts. “And mine is far away, but now Dante plays with me like Jamie’s daddy plays with her.”
She’s looking up at me with those same blue-gray eyes, wide, trusting, and waiting. And I’m cracking in half because I shouldn’t lie to her.
But fear’s louder.
“No, baby,” I croak, forcing a smile. “Daddy’s… Hey, you know what? I think there are some cupcakes in the kitchen. The chocolate ones with sprinkles you like. Want one before bed?”
Distraction. Sugar. Anything but the truth.
“Yes, please!”
She perks up and forgets the question fast because she’s three, and cupcakes still outrank complicated family history.
But I can’t forget. I can’t sleep.
Which is how, after I tuck her in and put her to sleep and fail to do the same with myself, I end up in the kitchen at 3 AM, trying to bake to get my mind off things.
My mind won’t shut up, playing Aria’s question on repeat like the world’s most devastating earworm.
Is Dante my daddy?
I make sure to keep things quiet in the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone.
Baking’s always been my therapy. I’m elbow-deep in cookie dough when I hear him.
“Bit early for baking, isn’t it?”
I jump, spinning, hands half-raised like a caught criminal.
“Jesus! You scared me,” I hiss, and then I notice he’s walking around topless.
Sweet Jesus, take me to hell already. He looks like sin incarnate with abs carved of marble. Why the hell is he glistening at this hour?
“Do you always walk around like that?” I snap, averting my gaze.
He leans against the doorframe, completely unbothered, arms crossed over that ridiculous chest, tattoos flexing like a warning label. His eyes rake over me—messy ponytail, my old tank top hanging off one shoulder—and that smirk only deepens.
“Didn’t realize I needed wardrobe approval to grab a glass of water,” he shrugs.
The man doesn’t know he needs a permit to be walking around like that. Whatever happens around him, I take no responsibility for my actions.
“Why are you up, anyway? Baking at this hour?” He looks incredulous. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Didn’t try hard enough, I guess,” I mutter, going back to my baking. My arms ache. My head aches. Everything aches.
He stays quiet for a beat, but his presence wraps around me anyway—thick, tense, and impossible to ignore.
“You want me to leave?” he offers finally.
“No,” I snap, harsher than I mean to. My throat burns. My hands shake. The words come out before I can think them straight. “I want this—this whole damn situation—to make sense.”
His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “You mean the part where your ex is still out there playing games?”
I swallow hard. My hands curl into fists at my sides. It’s easier to let him believe this is about Gino—the stalking, the threats, the shadows crawling up my walls. The part where I’ve turned my life into a bad Lifetime movie and can’t hit pause.
But the real problem? It’s curled up in her bed right now with blue-gray eyes and Dante’s whole damn face.
“I can handle it,” I lie.
His jaw ticks. “I’m not always gonna be around, Cass.”
The words land like a brick to the chest. My pulse flatlines. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Dante always leaves. It’s like his hobby. Brad Pitt divorcing people energy. Classic ghost-and-burn.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I shoot back, anger curdling under my skin.
“It means I’ve got shit to handle in town. Can’t always sit around the house looking out for you. And when I’m not here? Tina needs to know the full truth. Even if you won’t tell me, tell her.”
Panic spikes like a jolt of caffeine straight to my veins. “Absolutely not.”
He looks incredulous. “She’s your best friend.”
“Exactly. And she’s your sister, one you know very well. Which means if you tell her anything, she’ll go full FBI, dig into every corner—”
“Maybe that’s exactly what needs to happen.”
“No,” I snap, louder now, my chest heaving. “If Tina starts pulling at threads… it’ll get dangerous… for her.”
What I mean to say is, if Tina finds out I’m scared, she’ll dig. And when she digs, she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t know. Dante doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the weight of this lie—the secret that would blow this whole thing sky-high.
And if Tina finds out Aria isn’t Gino’s…
If Dante finds out she’s his…
Everything detonates.
He takes a step closer, the space shrinking, his voice low, lethal. “You’re just scared. You don’t have to protect everyone by killing yourself in the process.”
“Well, maybe I don’t need another guard dog. Maybe I don’t want Tina in my business. Maybe I don’t want—”
“The truth?” he bites, eyes blazing. “Because that’s coming, Cassie. Whether you hand it over or I drag it out of you.”
Before I can answer, his phone rings.
He answers, listens, eyes darkening, and jaw locking tighter with every word.
“I need to get this,” he says, and walks out the door without explanation.
Who the hell was that calling at three AM? What could be so urgent?
I stand there, heart racing, batter forgotten, pulse hammering under my skin.
Phew.
That was close. He was about to start asking questions again about what it is I’m hiding. But then, relief turns to worry. Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass, and he’s still not back.
I’m about to go looking for him when the door opens and he strides back in, face grim, something clutched in his hand.
A phone. Not his usual sleek smartphone, but an old-school flip phone. A burner.
“What’s going on?” I ask, fear creeping up my spine.
He doesn’t answer, just moves past me to the security panel by the door. I watch as he punches in a code and hear the distinct sound of locks engaging throughout the house. All of them.
“Dante, you’re scaring me.”
“Good,” he says, not looking at me. “You should be scared.” He moves to the windows, checking each one, drawing blinds, his movements quick and efficient. Like he’s done this before many times.
“Who was on the phone?” I press.
My chest tightens. My gut twists when he doesn’t answer.
“Dante?” I ask, the fear running through me like a live wire. “What’s happening?”
A chill runs through me. This isn’t the Dante I know—the rich boy with the mysterious family. This is someone who moves like a predator, who knows danger from a mile away.
“You’re scaring me,” I whisper again.
His face softens, just barely. “I’m sorry.” He reaches out and cups my cheek. “But I need to be alert.”
The harsh buzz of an alert cuts through the tension. Dante’s head snaps toward the tablet on the counter, the screen now lit up with footage from security cameras I didn’t even know existed.
Four AM
A black car idles at the gate. A figure standing beside it, face obscured by a hat pulled low.
“Someone’s watching the house,” he whispers, his eyes locked on the figure.
He doesn’t look worried or scared or uncertain. Doesn’t look like he should call the cops. He just stands there like a man who’s seen such things before, and I feel fear clawing up my throat at the terrible realization that I don’t know Dante Romano at all.
14
DANTE
The cameras don’t lie.
I stand at the counter with my eyes glued to the feed. My pulse moves steadily, but every muscle coils beneath my skin as I watch the figure outside pace the driveway like he’s got all night to fuck with my head. He’s not out there for a stroll. He’s casing us. Watching. Testing how close he can get.
He picked the wrong family to fuck with.
Whoever this asshole is has no idea who he’s playing with. Wrong house. Wrong family. And definitely the wrong man.
I’ve buried threats for less.
Cassie’s behind me, wound so tight I can feel the tension burning off her. But I can’t afford to comfort her right now. Fear’s useful. Fear keeps people alive.
I’ve got people to protect. A kid sleeping down the hall. A woman breaking apart from the weight of secrets she thinks I can’t see.
The guy’s still there with his hoodie drawn low like he fears nothing. He’s cocky. He thinks this is a game. Oh, by the time I’m done with him, he’ll pray for an entry to hell itself. The porch light flickers, casting him in and out of view, just enough for my blood to burn hotter.
The rage builds quietly and lethally under my skin, but I keep it leashed; otherwise, I’ll let it blind me. Can’t let that happen with Cassie, Aria, and Tina under my roof.
I drag open the drawer beside me, fingers curling around the knives tucked in the back. Not my preferred weapons, but they’ll do for now. I sling one into my belt. A blade at my ankle. Another under my shirt. Silent insurance policies I’ve carried half my life. Cassie flinches watching me arm myself, but I see the fear in her eyes—it’s not just for me. It’s for her. For the kid.
“Dante,” Cassie whispers, voice tight with fear, “what are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, Cass,” I tell her, hiding a few knives in my boots as well, just for good measure.
“Stay here,” I tell her as I leave the kitchen.
Cassie Russo doesn’t exactly specialize in obedience, though.
Of course, the second I step toward the living room, I hear her trailing after me, barefoot on the tile like some rebellious angel who never learned fear properly.
I glance back, jaw tight. “Cass, stay.”
She folds her arms, chin tilted high like she’s not scared. But I see the cracks beneath it. She’s afraid.
“I’m not some helpless princess, Dante,” she snaps. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m just going to make sure there’s no trouble outside,” I give her some kind of answer. She deserves that much.
I round the corner into the living room and stop by the painting—abstract bullshit Tina insisted on hanging years ago. It proved to be a good cover, though, so I didn’t mind footing the bill. I drag the painting aside, exposing the hidden compartment in the wall. My fingers click the latch, and I curl around the gun, pulling it into sight.
When I pocket it, Cassie’s eyes widen, fear bleeding into her stubborn expression.
“Why… why the hell do you have a gun?” Her voice is quieter now.
“Self-defense.” I don’t look at her as I lie smoothly. “The world’s not as soft as you want it to be, Cass.”
