Page 70 of Submitting to Daddy
Enzo twists in the passenger seat to face me. “What did it say?”
“Meeting,” I answer. “Tomorrow. Our place. Seven.”
Enzo stiffens. “Ourplace?”
“Yeah.”
Nik mutters something in Russian and swerves around a cab.
“Whoever it is,” Enzo says slowly, “they know where we live.”
“It’s not a bluff,” I lament. “They’ve got something. Access, intel. Or someone watching us.”
“Could still be bluffing,” Nik offers. “Could be trying to smoke you out.”
I shake my head. “Not with this kind of precision.”
Enzo exhales through his nose. “The girls are there.”
“I know.”
“And now they’re coming to the damnapartment?—”
“Iknow,” I snap, louder than I mean to. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Sorry.”
Nik grunts. “Don’t apologize. You know what we would sacrifice to keep Madison and Eavan safe.”
Everything… because they’re family.
Enzo leans forward, elbows on the center console. “You really think it’s someone inside?”
“Honestly, I have no fucking idea.”
We ride the rest of the way in silence.
By the time the elevator hums to a stop atthe floor beneath the penthouse, the whole air inside the car is wired with tension. The doors slide open. Enzo steps out, and Nik follows. I plant my hand against the doors to hold them open and call after Nik. “Hey. You know I was only giving you shit about getting your own place, right?”
Nik raises an eyebrow, and a smug smile pulls across his face. “Do you think I swooped in and bought this unit because you hurt my feelings?”
I hesitate. “No… but you wasted no time getting out.”
“Do you know how many times you can walk in on your best friend’s balls swinging as he drills his wife from behind?” Nik scoffs before grandly raising his finger in the air. “It’s one.Onewas more than enough.”
Enzo snickers as he steps into his apartment. “One would’ve been enough for me, too.”
“You don’t get to talk,” Nik snips at him. “A few more nights of listening to you railing his sister and I would’ve been checking into the Plaza.”
Upstairs, the penthouse is quiet. Madison’s curled up on the couch, hair still damp from her bath, reading yet another book with a jacked, shirtless man holding an axe on the cover. She doesn’t look up when I come in, clearly engrossed in her lumberjack smut.
“You got it done?” she asks softly.
“Smooth as butter,” I say, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. She smells like oranges and cinnamon.Like home.
She looks up then, eyes sharp despite the softness of her tone. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
I take the seat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
