Her Mafia Bodyguard

“And your dick is way too big.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that, but…”

“I hate when you make me come until I pass out.”

“Enough, princess.” He grins at the way I growl in response. “You deserve it. Fucking tease.”

I guess I can accept that.

Rolling through the front gate of the compound is a strange sensation. It’s still not the warm, fuzzy feeling place home should be, but it’s getting there. I hope one day it will be. Zeke still looks happy even with the aviators, but I won’t bother warning him about it because it only makes sense he would be glad to be back. In some ways, this is more his home than it is mine.

Dad meets us outside, arms outstretched. It’s almost like we’re a normal, happy family—except for the bodyguards to either side of him. “There she is! My beautiful girl.” I have to admit, it’s nice. Heartwarming. I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic welcome. For a moment, I can almost pretend we’re a regular father and daughter. Not that I would know what that feels like in real life, but I know how I’ve always imagined it being.

He then shakes Zeke’s hand. “I want to see you in my office right away. I have a few things I need to discuss.” Of course, because business is never too far from his mind.

He turns back to me, an arm around my shoulders while he leads me into the house. The tree in the entry hall is mind-blowing, covered in red and gold ornaments, and bright enough, it might be visible from space. “I’m having a dinner party tonight.”

I knew he would bring me back into his social world, but I didn’t know it would be this immediate. I know better than to complain about hoping we’d have a nice family dinner tonight, something quiet where we could catch up. He’s not interested in that. “Dress code?”

“Something nice. You have plenty of dresses that will do fine. But keep it modest, of course.”

Like that doesn’t go without saying. “Of course.” He leaves me at the foot of the lavishly decorated stairs before crooking a finger to beckon Zeke. Zeke glances at me before following.

So much for the happy reunion. I guess I should consider myself lucky I was personally greeted in the first place. Some of Dad’s staff are unloading my bags and carrying them up to my room. I follow and tell myself it’s better this way. I’ll have a little bit of privacy before getting grilled over how the semester went and what my plans are for the spring.

Strange how this bedroom still doesn’t feel like mine, but the one at the condo is starting to already. I wonder why. Is it because the condo feels like ours: mine and Zeke’s? I didn’t choose any of the furnishings, none of it, but it feels more like home than the lavish room Dad splurged on here at the house.

I need to stop sulking and fast. Especially if we’re having people over tonight. It goes without saying I’ll need to be on my best behavior, the perfect credit to my benevolent father. Or something like that.

I start to unpack, eyeing up the dresses in my closet. I have plenty to choose from. He’s right about that. I need to remind myself how generous he is and how lucky I am. He didn’t have to go to the trouble of making sure I had everything I could ever want. Even if everything comes with conditions.

Once I’m finished putting my clothes and toiletries away, I unpack my laptop and set it up on my desk. It’ll be nice getting away from it for a while. I’m tired of carrying it around everywhere I go. Then again, I can’t imagine having to lug around textbooks for every single class. How did people survive that back in the day? They probably all need chiropractors by now.

I wonder what Dad and Zeke are talking about.

It seems like I can’t distract myself enough. Why did Dad want to talk to him right away? It doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it? Us?

How could it? Nobody, not even the best actor in the entire world, could pretend to be as friendly and warm and welcoming as Dad was if he was waiting to strike. Like a snake in the grass. There wasn’t so much as a hint of tension or anger.

He’s probably going over ground rules for how to guard me now that we’re back home. Then again, I doubt it would take long. Don’t let her go anywhere, don’t let her go anything. Pretty simple. I flop into my desk chair, wishing Zeke would knock on the door to signal the end of their meeting. The sooner he’s finished, the better for my anxiety.

I need to get over this. We talked about it last night after we finished packing. We have to pretend everything is normal. We can’t let guilt eat at us because that’s when mistakes are made. And while Dad is usually too busy with business to pay attention to every minute of my life, there are eyes everywhere. And no telling who might want to gossip.

I need another distraction. Opening my laptop, I pull up Facebook and scroll through pictures for a while. Posey is already in Manhattan at her grandfather’s place, where she’ll be spending the holiday. There’s the tree at Rockefeller Center, with Posey and her family smiling in front of it. She complains about them a lot, but at least her parents are present for her.

She’s really lucky. I mean, so am I, but still.

What is taking so long? Dammit, I’m going to go nuts.

I keep scrolling until I come across a post from Dean. That reminds me of the conversation we had back in the car. I don’t really feel like rehashing all the work we put into our project, but I am kind of curious about the materials he says he sent to my school email account. I’m sure he’ll ask me about it the next time we talk, so I might as well look and see what he’s referring to. Even if opening my school email is the last thing I want to do on my first day home on break.

His message is right at the top. I click on it, then click the links in the body of the message.

At first, I don’t understand. Articles, a handful of them, some dating back fifteen years or so. I skim one, then the next one, and I’m starting to get the feeling this was all a ploy to have another reason to touch base again. Like texting somebody and pretending it was an accident later on, all for the sake of getting their attention.

It’s the third article that lands like a bomb.

I lean in, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

Before long, the words start to blur, thanks to the tears welling up and spilling over onto my cheeks.

No way. It’s not possible. This has to be a joke.

But I’m not laughing.