The Daddy and the Dom (Mafia Menage Trilogy 2)

My knees almost went out from under me as relief slammed through my body. My legs shook as I followed the nurse to her hospital room, but somehow, I managed to walk without stumbling.

When I got to her room, I rushed to her side, taking her small hand in mine. It was warm, reassuring me that she was alive. But the pretty pink flush was absent from her cheeks, and her full lips were chapped and pale.

She stirred when I stroked my thumb over her palm.

“Joseph?” she mumbled. She didn’t open her eyes, and I wasn’t sure if she was fully awake. She certainly wasn’t completely aware of her surroundings. I’d always known she was fragile, but it pained me to see her so frail.

“I’m right here, angel,” I promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Where’s Marco?” she slurred.

Rage made my muscles ripple and flex, but I was careful not to squeeze her delicate hand.

“Go to sleep, angel,” I said instead of answering her. “You need to rest.”

A little furrow persisted between her brows, but a few seconds later, it eased. Her breathing turned deep and even.

My eyes burned.

Our fault.

My fault.

I never should have kept her for myself. For us.

It was too late to send her back to the safety of her life at Harvard. That was shattered now that my father’s enemies were aware that she was with me. They knew she was important to me because I’d brought her to New York.

Because Marco had brought her to New York.

I’d been angry with him in the past, but I’d never felt this toxic rage. It held a sharp edge of hatred that shredded my insides.

I might have no choice but to take Ashlyn back to the safety of his family’s estate, but what Marco and I had shared was broken. He wasn’t my brother anymore, and Ashlyn would never belong to him. She was mine, and mine alone.

It had been three days since I’d brought Ashlyn back to the estate, but she was still weak, and she tired easily. Really, she should still be in the hospital, but I didn’t want to risk her. She was safest on Marco’s estate, behind the impenetrable gates.

We’d arranged for an on-call doctor come check on her twice a day. Other than that, I took care of her.

And Marco kept his fucking distance, as he should.

She’d asked for him several times, but I’d told her he was busy in the city, helping my father track down the fuckers who had tried to poison him. Of course, we knew who was ultimately responsible, but we couldn’t go after Gabriel Costa until someone turned on him. Whoever had tried to poison Dad had to say they were working under Costa’s orders. Otherwise, we’d be the ones instigating the war, and the family might not survive that. It was essential that my father came out on top, with the family intact and as powerful as ever.

I was grateful that the task of finding the traitor kept Marco away, but part of me wanted to help. Twice, Marco had returned with blood on his hands, his knuckles split. He got to be out there, hurting the people who had hurt Ashlyn. And while I didn’t like my violent lifestyle, I wouldn’t mind beating the shit out of whoever was responsible for almost taking her from me.

As it was, Marco only showed his face if he was bringing Ashlyn’s meals to her in the bedroom. He wisely left them on the nightstand and let me feed her. If he tried to pull any Daddy shit with her in front of me, I’d punch him again. He didn’t get to be her Daddy. He didn’t get to take on that responsibility. He’d lost the privilege.

Ashlyn seemed upset when he’d leave, but mostly, she slept.

Today, she was brighter, more alert. She’d been awake for nearly three hours this afternoon, and she was sitting in bed, propped up against the pillows. I’d brought a TV in from one of the guest bedrooms so we could watch Sons of Anarchy together. I sat in bed beside her, and she rested her head on my shoulder.

I couldn’t stop touching her, couldn’t stop feeling her warmth and inhaling her light, floral scent. I’d almost lost her, and I had to reassure myself that she was alive and safe in my arms.

Marco knocked on his bedroom door, waiting for me to invite him to enter. When I did, he stepped into the room, carrying two steaming plates of pasta. He’d been cooking blander dishes for Ashlyn, making sure she could keep the food down while still getting enough calories.

He set the plates on the nightstand, not looking at either of us.

“Marco,” Ashlyn said, her voice soft and pleading. “Come sit with us.”

He tensed, but he jerked his head in silent refusal and turned away. She reached out and caught his wrist.