I bite down.
Hard.
I cut my lip and then sit up, letting out a shiver.
Am I really going to let myself get that close to pleasuring myself with Poppet in bed with me?
No way.
I stand up and walk an aimless circuit around the room. The sun has risen and outside the distant sounds of the city call up to me, all the way up here in Dad’s penthouse apartment.
I peel back the curtain and look down at the sun-bathed city, a shadow of a cloud moving like a giant crawling beast across the park. Then I turn and walk toward my dresser, where I’ve stowed the clothes I’ve unpacked and washed. Basically, any clothes I’ve needed in the past two weeks since moving here.
“It’s all so silly, Poppet,” I say, searching for a T-shirt and some sweatpants.
But with nothing else to do but hang around the apartment, I don’t see the need to get dressed properly. Perhaps this will give me the motivation I need to get to work on my book again because these past two weeks have been so crazy I’ve sort of let that slip.
Letting my ambition slip. What a cliché of a writer.
I stand there in my pajama shorts and a tank top, no bra, glad that Domenico isn’t here to see me.
Every time I think about the way he winced when he saw my body, something in me seizes. I’ll try not to think about it, I decide.
Because ignoring things always makes them better.
After getting dressed I see that Poppet’s head is cocked, most likely listening to a sound deeper in the building. She springs from the bed like a flurry of snow and pads languidly across the room. A moment later, I hear the front door open and the sound of my dad’s footsteps.
“Dallas?” he calls. “Are you home? Are you alright?”
I open the door and Poppet sprints down the hallway, decorated with surprising elegance considering Dad’s the one who did it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a personal designer in here, come to think of it, with the marble-colored walls and the plush rugs, yet light enough not to become clammy and trapping in the sun. Poppet rounds the corner at the end of the hall and I follow her, emerging into the cavernous open-plan room that dominates the apartment. The large room houses the living room, the kitchen, and the dining area, separated only by the change from hardwood to carpet.
Dad is sitting at the kitchen bar, leaning down to scratch Poppet behind the ears as she leaps up at him.
“I’m still shocked she still remembers me,” he says, grinning.
I smile and move across the room. Dad is wearing a sweat-soaked shirt and faded blue jeans. The jeans have black marks on them.
Ash? Paint? What?
“You should’ve seen the look on Mom’s face the day they brought her to the house,” I giggle. “I thought she was going to have a heart attack.”
Dad smiles but keeps staring down at Poppet. “I knew she’d be perfect for you,” he says. “Eight years old and look at her, still full of energy. And you know I wanted to give you more, Dallas. I always did. But—Well, sometimes we don’t always get what we want.”
But Mother refused my money because she knew where it came from.
That’s what he wants to say, I just know it.
But even if Mom has never had a problem disparaging Dad – now there’s a euphemistic word if there ever was one – Dad never returned the favor.
He looks up at me with the tight grin-slash-grimace I inherited from him.
“Are you old enough to drink coffee now?”
I roll my eyes. “If that wasn’t a joke, I’m moving out of here ASAP.”
He chuckles and wanders over to the coffee machine.
“I’m just glad you’re okay. Jesus, if something had happened to you … What the hell were you thinking, Dallas? Name-dropping Dom all around town?”
I feel a fierce blush infuse my cheeks, both at the mention of Dom’s name – get a grip, girl – and also at the embarrassment of the mistake. Dad’s right. There’s no excuse for a slip-up so catastrophic.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I wasn’t thinking. But then, you know, it’s not exactly like you ever explicitly told me you’re in the Italian Mob and I shouldn’t go around saying my boss’s name. As far as I’m supposed to be concerned, you’re just a businessman, and Domenico DeLuca is just a businessman, right?”
Dad works his tongue around his mouth for a moment, seeming to harden. He reaches down and gives Poppet more loving attention and then turns back to the coffee machine, avoiding my gaze.
“We’re having Dom and a few of the men over for dinner this evening,” he says.
“So you’re avoiding my question.”
He sighs and starts fiddling with the buttons on the coffee machine. “Goddamn thing never works.”
“That’s a yes, then.”
“Need to get this son of a bitch fixed.”
I wander over to the window, looking down at the city, feeling vulnerable even if I know this is protective glass. I feel like I’m floating as I watch a cloud drift by, impossibly close.
“So Domenico DeLuca is coming here for dinner tonight?” I ask, knowing Dad won’t talk about his work.
“Yes,” Dad says. “I’d appreciate it if you could, ah, be my daughter for the evening.”
“You mean sit there and smile and be as friendly and inoffensive as I can.”
Dad chuckles grimly. “Yeah, exactly.”
I turn to find him looking at me like he used to when I was a kid and said something precocious, as though he’s constantly amazed I’m not his little girl anymore.
“Okay, Dad. I’ll try.”
He finishes the coffee and slides one over to me. I take it, savoring the blistering
