Page 85 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
But we never talked about whether he wanted the job. It’s expected for the eldest son to take over. When I step down, Dario fills my shoes. End of story.
Just like it was for me. The end of my dreams of a life without violence or the crushing weight of responsibility that comes with running a criminal empire.
“Dario...do you want to take over for me someday?”
The question shocks him into silence. I wait, staring at the blue patterns in the carpet.
“Do you think I’m not up for it?” he asks, voice guarded.
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “That’s not what this is about. There’s no one I trust more to take my place. But I never asked if you wanted it. I just assumed...fuck, I’m a terrible father.”
Dario and Luca turned out well despite my failings, but I know I wasn’t always the best dad. I could blame being an unexpected single parent, not knowing what I was doing, but the truth is I struggled to balance time between my boys and my obligations to the family. The mafia came first most of their lives.
I consoled myself with being better than my father. I was never intentionally cruel, and I kept a cooler head instead of torturing people at the drop of a hat.
But was I just as shitty if I never bothered asking my son about his own vision for his future?
“I want to be Don,” Dario says, voice serious. “I’ve never considered doing anything else. Don’t worry about it.”
Relief rushes through me. Despite the uncertainty with Mia, at least this aspect of the future is secure.
We talk for a few more minutes before ending the call. Dario assures me he’s fine running things and there’s no hurry to return. Good, because I have no idea how long Mia will want to stay here.
Still in my chair, I open my phone and navigate to my pictures. There’s a folder dedicated to Mia, and I scroll through each photo, my cock hardening as I get that familiar thrill from watching her.
It’s not the same as being there, but these pictures will have to do. The compound is too heavily guarded for me to slip inside and feed my obsession. The photos are all I have.
But it’s not enough.
I text her:Are you okay? What are you doing?
Her reply comes immediately, and I smile reading it.
Stop obsessing. I’m fine.
I love that she calls me out on my shit.
Still, it’s driving me crazy not knowing what she’s doing. Every time she leaves that compound, I’ll be there to watch her. Every moment I can steal, I will.
Right or wrong, I don’t care. I’ve always had my own moral compass anyway.
33
MIA
It’s beentwo days since I decided to stay in Mexico and get to know my family.
Two days since I’ve seen Lorenzo.
Two days of pretending I’m not going quietly insane without him.
He’s texted me to check in several times, but he hasn’t pushed for more contact. If I didn’t know him better, I’d probably think he was just giving me the space and time I need, that he was showing me respect.
But there’s this feeling.
This consistent awareness that prickles along my skin when I leave the compound, like fingers hovering an inch away from making contact. An electric charge that makes the little hairs on my arms stand up and my pulse quicken for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely.
He’s watching me. I have no doubt about it.
