Fall For My Ex’s Mafia Dad
Chapter 42

The next day, I go down to the kitchen in my riding clothes and wait. And wait.

I have my breakfast with Daniel, waving him off as he goes to class, and then have about five more tiny cups of espresso as I wait so me more.

I'm practically buzzing when Kent finally deigns to come into the room, which is, as usual, busy with activity.

He doesn't even look at me as he sweeps through the room, stopping to check on those cooking this morning, and then heading to the back corner, where the older captains sit. He joins them and consult for awhile, making plans for whatever their next move is. I grit my teeth, realizing that I'm going to have to wait a little longer. To pass the time, I cross to the espresso machine to make myself another cup.

Forty-five minutes later, Kent walks swiftly past me, headed for the door.

Pissed - I know he saw me sitting here, I know he's doing this on purpose - I stand up and call after him.

"Kent!" I call.

He stops in his tracks and then slowly turns to look at me, an eyebrow raised. Otherwise, though, his body gives no indication of what he's thinking or feeling. "Can I get a ride, please?" I ask. "To the stables?"

Kent's eyes flick over me and then he gives a little laugh. "No time today," he says as he pushes through the door. "Maybe tomorrow. If I'm feeling generous."

I glare at the door as it swings shuts.

God damnit. This was my real punishment.

Finishing my tiny cup of coffee, I head upstairs and get changed, opting for a comfortable pair of leggings and a sweater. Then, I flop onto my bed, realizing that I have...absolutely nothing to do.

I sigh, glancing over at my books, but not wanting to read them. It's moments like this when I really miss Fiona. She was always a bright spot in my day, making me laugh, filling up my time by dressing me up and playing with my hair like her own little human-sized barbie.

Sitting up, I wonder about where she is now. I hope she's okay, that she got somewhere safe. That she's happy, living a good life.

It's so strange, realizing someone you'd come to love is your biological family in the moment when you say goodbye to them. Fiona was good to me perhaps because I am her cousin. She taught me so many skills that I've found useful already in this mafia life, skills I'm not sure I truly appreciated until now.

I wonder, too, if she was also giving me hints about how to defy Kent. Considering that she was, apparently, here the whole time as a spy herself -

Perhaps she was preparing me to take her place.

I pale a little at the idea, still not knowing - not really - where my allegiances like. With Daniel, certainly, but between Kent and my father, the true real powers at play here? Whose side was I on? Perhaps neither.

But Fiona. She was the one who showed me, first, that there's more to this house than meets the eye. And that if I'm sneaky, I can find some really interesting - and potentially useful - stuff in the house's most under-explored corners. A wicked little smile crosses my face then.

Well. If Kent won't keep me out of trouble by taking me to visit my horse, then I guess...trouble it is.

I bounce out of bed, putting on my slippers, and head out into the hallway.

I look both ways, realizing that I actually know very little about this house. There's a linen closet next to my room, and then on the other side there's Daniel's room. Beyond that is the room that Fiona used, and then some other guest rooms. I blink, realizing that - really - I have no idea where Kent sleeps.

A smirk crosses my face as I wonder if he hangs from the rafters like some kind of evil bat. That would suit his personality, for sure.

Thinking of the rafters, though, my eyes travel up the next set of stairs, which wind slowly upwards beyond my room.

I had asked Fiona, once, where they went, but she had dismissed the question off-hand, telling me there was nothing up there but a whole bunch of junk in storage.

I consider this for a second, mulling over her words. What kind of storage, though? Especially if all of the family heirlooms and photo books were kept downstairs in that little room in the basement...what the hell did they keep upstairs? Suddenly curious, and feeling bold - and frankly, bored - I look around for any evidence of prying eyes and then tiptoe forward, heading up the steps without a sound.

Surprisingly, there isn't even a landing at the top. Instead, there's just an ugly brown plywood door, its shabby material clearly at odds with the fine woodworking in the rest of the house. This, clearly, was installed late.

I reach out a hand, firmly grasping the round knob, and give it a twist - but it doesn't budge.

Disappointed, I drop my hand and screw my mouth to the side. I make a mental note to ask Daniel what's up there and, also, to look up some basic lock picking methods on the internet.

Shrugging, I skip back down the steps and decide impulsively that if I'm denied knowledge of the storage centers above, I might as well explore those below. Without stopping to let myself think much about it - lest I chicken out - I hurry down the stairs and push through the kitchen door.

I walk confidently across the kitchen, not avoiding eye-contact with anyone, but not initiating it either. Instead, I simply glide through as if this is precisely what I'm supposed to do - as if, in fact, Kent expressly told me to do it.

My tactic works and I smile as I push through the little white door, heading downstairs. Nobody stops me and I think - nobody really noticed me going by.

As I reach the hallway below, I realize that this place doesn't hold any terror for me anymore. My experiences yesterday got rid of those, replacing them with...well, with a little tremor of excitement that pulses through me.

I consider this, for a moment - consider whether that's healthy, really. Honestly, a girl like me should have a healthy fear of the mob boss's torture chamber basement. I was still naïve and new to this world - there was still so much danger here for me, and yet here I was, walking through without a care. Really, seriously, who was I anymore?

As I come to the end of the hallway and push through the door into the archives room, I realize that a big part of me...doesn't really care about the changes that I'm going through. That I like myself like this - this bold, somewhat careless new Fay. Maybe this new version of me was just some kind of trauma response to what happened yesterday? But, I shrug as I stand in the middle of the room. Whatever. It's better than being terrified all the time.

I take a minute to look over the stacks of porn sitting in the corner, but then I shake my head, deciding against it. I am definitely curious - especially knowing that some of it is Kent's homemade stuff - but...no. Not today.

Instead, I move to the opposite side of the room, to where the photo books are. Some of them are very old - a hundred years or more, even. The academic historian in me wants to explore those early photographs, but instead I reach for the newer bindings further down, hoping for some information about Daniel and his upbringing.

I take a few volumes over to the little chair, flipping through.

I smile, recognizing Daniel's face in a few of the first photos, but then frown when I realize that they're too old - grainy old photos, with fashion from the 1980s...

I blink, shocked, realizing that these must be pictures of Kent when he was a child. Fascinated, I flip through, looking at the people who must have been his mother and father, his family. I quickly flip to the front of the book where I'm lucky enough to find a picture of a beautiful, dark-haired woman, who is happily caressing her pregnant belly.

This, I'm sure, must be Kent's mother. I study her face for a resemblance to her but frown when I can't find it. Kent's looks, like Daniel's, must likewise come from his father.

Hoping for pictures of Daniel as a child, I put this album down and pick up the next one. I'm shocked, when I flip it open, to see that it's actually Kent's wedding album.

Slowly, I flip through the photos - black and white, surprisingly - and take in all the details of their beautiful Italian wedding. It looks terribly romantic, situated at a beautiful vineyard, the couple's private table set up under a wide-branching olive tree. There is a photograph, right at the beginning, of the beautiful bride, her stunning face quite serious as she looks directly into the camera. Her dress is long, lace, and clinging - the opposite of the one that I had chosen for my own wedding.

Or, well. The one Kent had chosen for me. I wonder, passingly, if it was an intentional choice, remembering that none of the dresses selected for me looked anything like this.

I return my eyes to her face again, her hair tightly pulled back so as not to distract from her severe expression as she raises her chin and looks proudly at the camera.

I find myself quite moved by her, curious about this noble - and, am I imagining it? A bit melancholy? - mafia bride.

My thoughts are interrupted, though, by a single word that makes me jump almost out of my seat.

"Fay." Kent's tone is serious and disapproving as I raise my eyes to see him standing at the door, his feet set wide apart, hands in his pockets as he frowns at me. "I told you not to come down here."

I close the photo album languidly, holding his gaze. "Well, you wouldn't take me to the stable. I got bored." I shrug a little. "You can't expect a girl to stay in her room all day, can you?"

He glares at me, and a little smile tugs at my lips as I hear a rumble growing in his chest.

God, but I do love to piss him off.