Page 3 of Submitting to Daddy
“You’re going to do amazing,” Mom muses, like she’s reading my thoughts. “Just promise me you’ll call often.”
“I will,” is all I say, and I mean it.
“Don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it. There’s no shame in that.”
“I know. But I think I’ve got this. I’ve got a ton of unpacking to do,” I inform her. “Plus, unless I’m eating granola, I also need to get to a grocery store at some point tonight.”
“All right, Maddie. I’ll let you go,” she begrudgingly agrees. “You need to settle in. Just… don’t forget to eat something tonight. And lock your door.”
“I love you, too, Mom.” I shake my head, hang up, and place my cell phone on the window ledge. Resting against it, I listen to the city below through the slightly cracked window—sirens wailing in the distance, honking horns, and a group of men laughing loudly on the sidewalk directly below me. The chaotic, noisy patchwork is somehow comforting.
As much as I should actually unpack, my stomach won’t stop growling. I’m also exhausted from the drive and lugging boxes upstairs. I turn to the mattress, give it a firm tug, and let it flop to the floor. Grabbing my phone, I forgo sheets—I have no idea where that box is, anyway—and lay down on it.
My stomach grumbles again, and I decide to listen to Mom’s advice.At least about dinner.
CURRENT DAY
The smell of garlic and seared meat still hangs in the air, mixing well with the warmth of good whiskey and laughter—even if most of the laughter is at my expense. Apparently, my complete inability to cook anything besides scrambled eggs and shit that comes from a can is quite humorous.At least to everyone else.
The evening is light and fun—an unusual combination for the four of us. For the first time in months, we aren’t looking over our shoulders. Tonight’s family dinner feels almost normal, and I can’t stop wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. It’s beenquiet.Too quiet.
A sharp, unexpected rap against the front door cuts through the laughter in the room like a blade, and I can practically hear the figurative shoe clattering against the hardwood floor. Gunnar’s voice follows a moment later, calm, but alert. “Hey, sorry to interrupt. I ran into a guy in the lobby looking to speak with Cillian,” he apologizes, stepping into the kitchen. My fork pauses mid-air. “I frisked him in the elevator.”
My brow furrows. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.” Hell, no one knows I’m even here except the people in this room and a few trusted others. I push my chair back to stand, but Enzo beats me to it, waving me off. “Eat,” he insists, already walking away. “I’ll take care of it.”
I listen as the door opens, Enzo inviting the already searched stranger into our home. His footsteps carry down the front hall and into the kitchen. His entry is preceded by his uncertain voice. “I was looking for Mr. O’Brien.”That gets my full attention—no one refers to me as Mr. O’Brien.
The uninvited guest steps into the kitchen, and I immediately size him up. He’s wearing a suit that looks like it came from a gas station clearance rack. His haircut is courtesy of either a ten-dollar discount store or a blind barber. But his true tell is the way he walks—definitely aFed.He looks out of his element in our kitchen, and I assume he’s not the kind of Fed that kicks in doors—more like the kind that shuffles papers behind a desk.
His eyes land on Nikolai first, blowing wide. “Mr. Romanov.”That surprise isn’t fake.
Nikolai doesn’t even blink. “And you are?”
The guy flashes his badge like it means something. “Special Agent Frankford. With RICO.”There it is.The room falls silent, all of us surprised by his disclosure. Even Eavan freezes,her hand hovering above her glass. I set my fork down slowly and deliberately, unable to refrain from glaring at the man who had the audacity to saunter into my home.
Frankford looks around the room, as though he still can’t believe the dinner party he walked in on. “You’ll have to excuse me.” His voice is steady, but disbelieving. “I clearly wasn’t expecting to find the heads of three rival families laughing and sharing dinner. Bonding over the untimely passings of your fathers?”Cheap fucking shot—but well fucking calculated.
His narrow eyes barely containing his disdain, Enzo asks, “What do you want?”
“Truth be told, I had a few questions about Rian O’Brien,” Agent Frankford answers without hesitation.
“Rian O’Brien?” Enzo asks with a scoff. “Is that the reason you’re standing in my apartment, Agent Frankford?”
He condescendingly raises a brow and smiles. “Among others.”
“You want to tell us why you’re really here? Because I don’t think you showed up to compliment the risotto,” Nikolai jests as he stands, unable to take even this moment seriously.
“You’re right,” Frankford retorts with a dry chuckle. “I didn’t come for the food. Though the company… Now, that’s interesting.”
He paces nervously for a moment, easing further into the room “Your fathers bled this city for decades, carving it into pieces like a pie none of them wanted to share,” he shares, as though suddenly fueled with brazenness. “And now—suddenly—it’s quiet. Almost like someone turned down the volume.”
“You got a problem with peace, Agent?” I ask.
“What I have a problem with is the unknown. O’Brien, Romanov, Roseti—each of you inherited an empire built on violence. Now you’re having dinner together? It doesn’t make sense, unless you figured out that together, you’re untouchable.”
None of us responds. Why would we? There’s nothing we can say that won’t be twisted and dissected later in some sterile office.
He steps further in. Suddenly confident—maybe too confident—his gaze flitting around the island at each of us.“Here’s what I think,” he shares. “I think you’re planning something big. Bigger than territory, bigger than protection, rackets or drugs. I think you’ve already started it.”
