Chapter 93 - NINETY THREE

Chapter 93: Chapter NINETY THREE

VINCENZO

Martha was in the living room. She saw me come down the stairs and her face gave nothing away. Not a flicker. Not a glance. Whatever she’d seen an hour ago, she’d sealed it behind a mask of professional composure that I might have admired if I weren’t the man she’d caught with his cock in his daughter’s mouth.

Angel had gone back to sleep and curled up in my sheets. Naked. Satisfied. I’d left her looking like something between an angel and a crime scene.

Martha handed me my morning coffee. Her hands were steady. Her voice was even. If she was thinking about what she’d walked into, she gave no indication. But I knew Martha. I’d known her since I was a boy. That woman processed everything and expressed nothing until she was ready.

She was not ready. And I wasn’t going to bring it up.

I took a sip and sat down, waiting to know what she had wanted.

"Sir," Martha said. "I need to take two weeks off. Family emergency." She paused. "I’ll send a replacement. Someone I trust to handle things here."

I opened my mouth to respond, it was such a trivial issue.

"Is she young?"

The voice came from the stairs. High. Sharp. Alert.

I turned. Angel was standing on the staircase. I’d thought she was asleep. She wasn’t. She was wide awake, and her eyes were already lit with the wild, dangerous energy that often preceded her worst behaviour.

She was wearing one of my shirts. Nothing else. It hung to mid-thigh and her legs were bare — bare legs I’d had wrapped around my waist an hour ago, bare thighs I’d gripped hard enough to bruise — and I noticed the limp in her walk as she came down the stairs. A slight hitch. A tenderness in her stride that sent a pulse of dark satisfaction through my chest.

I’d done that. I’d fucked her so hard she was walking differently and the primal, possessive part of me that I was no longer pretending didn’t exist felt smug about it.

I wondered if she was still dripping my cum or if it had dried on her thighs by now. Whether my shirt was absorbing it. Whether she could feel me seeping out of her with every step down the stairs. The thought made my cock stir in my pants and I shifted in my chair.

Fuck. Martha was standing right there and I was getting hard thinking about my cum dripping down my daughter’s legs.

Angel reached the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes moved from Martha to me and back to Martha.

"I don’t want someone young and pretty coming into this house," she said. The pout was immediate, she looked adorable even, but her eyes were anything but playful. "She’ll take Daddy’s attention."

She walked to my chair and settled herself on my lap. Not beside me. On me. Her bare ass pressing against my crotch, warm through my pants, and she shifted deliberately — a small, grinding movement that pressed her against my cock while Martha stood three feet away.

She was doing it on purpose. Marking territory. Showing Martha that she owned this lap, this body, this man. The same way an animal urinates on its territory — primal, instinctive, absolutely unhinged.

And my cock, treasonous and depraved, responded. Stiffened against her bare skin. She felt it. I saw her lips curve just slightly. Victory.

I looked at Martha. My face betraying nothing. Years of running a criminal empire had given me the ability to maintain composure while the world burned. It was the only useful skill I had left.

"Handle your emergency. Send the replacement. We’ll manage."

"Daddy." Angel turned to me. Her eyes were filling. Those fast, convincing tears that she produced on command. "You can’t mean it. I don’t want anyone else but Mrs. Martha in our house." Her voice dropped to something smaller. Vulnerable. "What if she’s pretty? What if you look at her the way you look at me?"

She turned back to Martha. The tears were gone. Replaced by something colder. Harder. Her voice dropped and the sweetness vanished and what was left was the real Angel — the one I pretended not to see when she was being charming.

"If anyone comes," she said, looking directly at Martha, "I’ll make her go away. I always make them go away."

Martha said nothing. But her jaw tightened — just barely, just enough — and she folded her hands in front of her. A woman who had survived decades in my household knew when she was being threatened.

The room was silent. Angel sitting on my lap with her bare thighs and my cock hardening against her ass. Martha standing in front of us, professional and unreadable. Me, caught between the woman who’d watched me grow up and the girl who’d torn my life apart.

Angel shifted on my lap again. Another grinding rotation. Pressing her bare cunt against my cock through my pants. In front of Martha. Looking directly at Martha while she did it.

"See?" Angel said to Martha. Her voice was honey laced with arsenic. "Daddy doesn’t need anyone else. He has me."

Martha’s eyes met mine. I should be the one to handle this. I was supposed to be the adult. The father. The man in control.

But I was also the man who’d cum inside his daughter three times since midnight and was currently getting hard from her weight in his lap. The man who’d just spent an hour breeding his own child and thinking about swelling her belly. The man whose cock was pressing against the cunt he’d fucked raw last night while the housekeeper stood three feet away trying not to see what she’d already seen.

I couldn’t let this spiral. The tantrums and her threats. The way Angel could go from sweet to savage in a breath. I’d made things worse by fucking her — I knew that. I was supposed to help her. Fix her. Put the pieces back together that Damien had shattered. Instead, I’d crawled inside the wreckage with her and made it home.

But this — the territorial aggression, the threats to Martha, and her desperate need to eliminate every other woman from my orbit — it couldn’t continue.

"You’ll do no such thing, Angel." I kept my voice level. Calm. The voice that used to work before I’d destroyed every boundary between us. "What you are going to do is behave yourself. Do you hear me?"

She didn’t respond. She glowered at me. Those eyes — bright, furious, brimming with a rage that was half jealousy and half something deeper. Abandonment. The terror that someone would replace her. That my attention would shift. That she’d be discarded.