Page 2 of Mob Boss Daddy

“Yes, boss?”

“Send the rest of them home. I’ve made my choice.”

Jessie sits blinking rapidly, her jaw hanging open as she flicks her eyes from me to Rory.

“What’s wrong? Change your mind?” I ask her, shoving my hands deep into my pockets to stop myself from cupping her face.

“No, I just thought you’d have some questions for me first.”

“Why? I assume the service vetted you. I don’t have the time to repeat the process.” That’s the best excuse I can muster. My other choice is to just come out and tell her that she’s infected my soul with a wild desire that’s making the decision for me.

“Okay. Well, would it be alright if I meet your daughter?”

“She’s not…” I pause to adjust my tone, careful to bury the mounting fury I feel whenever I’m reminded of what happened to him. “She isn’t my daughter. She’s the daughter of a friend of mine who died, leaving me as her guardian.”

She slumps on her seat and stares at her hands. The sudden shift in her mood isn’t lost on me. What did I just say to upset her?

I walk to the front of my desk, lean against it, and look down at her. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

At first, she shakes her head and refuses to look at me. Then, she must’ve decided on something because she breathes deeply and lifts her face to hold my gaze. “I…I lost my parents when I was four. I know how hard it is. Losing them at a young age is one thing, but growing older and realizing they’re never coming back is a whole different kind of pain. You just feel abandoned and your world gets turned on its head.”

It feels like someone plunged a knife into my chest and twisted it. Dark, possessive feelings curl in my gut along with a primal need to never let her experience pain ever again. With me, she won’t. And I’ll break the skull of anyone who dares to try. “Who took care of you?”

“No one. I didn’t have anyone willing to be my guardian. I was a ward of The Sisters of Mercy Orphanage until I turned eighteen.”

I draw in slow, steady breaths and reach out to massage the back of my neck. It angers me that no one’s been there for her. All this time, she’s been alone. Well, that ends today. “How could anyone see you and not want to take care of you?”

The side of her mouth curls up, and her eyes brighten. “That’s a very nice thing to say. Thank you. How old is she?”

“She’s six years old. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you.”

She gives me a wide grin and practically leaps out of the chair. I don’t know what’s going on with me. For the past five minutes, I’ve been subjected to irritation, surprise, arousal, and anger.

I am a man who’s almost always in full control of my emotions, but it’s like the moment I met Jessie, I became a different version of myself—someone more than willing to dish out violence to anyone who even looks at her the wrong way.

I hold my arm out to her. She hesitates for a moment then takes it and walks beside me. An electric charge shoots through me as our bodies rub together in the doorway. Fuck, is this the right thing to do? How am I going to concentrate on anything with her roaming around the house? I don’t know, and at this point, I don’t care, either. I want her here, and I always get what I want.

“There are a lot of men in your house. Is it always like this?” she asks as we pass through the front room headed toward the stairs.

“I do a lot of my business at home. They’re business associates of mine. You can tell me if they’re bothering you or making you uncomfortable, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Stop calling me Sir. Just Jack. Also, it’s best if you don’t try to make friends with them. They have a job to do and nothing more.”

“Alright, Jack.”

Even the sound of my name on her lips stiffens me into a crowbar. In my thirty-seven years on this earth, no girl has ever gotten under my skin like this. No one. And it’s taking every ounce of my strength not to push her against the wall and stake my claim.

We arrive at the playroom I had set up for Macy and find her sitting in the center of the colorful, plush rug on the floor, drawing a picture on a giant sheet of paper.

Bright posters adorn the wall along with her stick drawings and rainbow paintings. Crayons and washable markers are scattered on the floor while she focuses on her latest artwork.

“What’s her name?” Jessie whispers.

“Macy.”

I watch as Jessie slowly walks to her and gets down on her knees beside the child, picking up the nearest crayons one by one and putting them in the small box.

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