Falling for My Ex’s Mafia Dad Episode 3

📖 The Story Continues

Falling for My Ex’s Mafia Dad — Episode 03

By the time Fay entered the prison, she had rebuilt herself out of procedure. She signed the visitor log, surrendered her phone, and repeated the purpose of the assessment until the words sounded stronger than her fear. Kent Lippert was a convicted criminal with a history of violence. Whatever had passed between them outside meant nothing inside the interview room.

The guards led her through a sequence of steel gates, each one locking behind her with a mechanical crash. Concrete walls swallowed the night, replacing it with fluorescent light and stale air. Fay tightened her grip on the assessment folder. She had faced difficult patients before, but never a man whose name made armed officers lower their voices.

You can do this, she told herself. Her license had been issued by the state because she was qualified, not because she was fearless. Professional courage meant recognizing danger and proceeding carefully. It did not mean pretending the man waiting beyond the final door was harmless.

Kent sat alone at a metal table without restraints, an exception that told Fay more about his power than handcuffs ever could. He looked entirely at ease in prison gray, his posture relaxed and his attention immediate. When she entered, his gaze traveled over her with the same measured interest he had shown from the car.

“Mr. Lippert,” Fay began, refusing to acknowledge their earlier encounter. “My name is Fay Thompson, and I’ll be administering your state psychological assessment.” She placed the folder on the table and took the chair across from him, careful to leave space between them.

Kent leaned back, amusement touching his mouth. “You’re doing my evaluation to determine whether I’m released?” His tone made the legal process sound like a private joke. Fay met his eyes, unwilling to let him see how deeply his presence unsettled her.

“That is correct.” She opened the standardized form and clicked her pen. The familiar motions steadied her. “My recommendation will be based on your responses, behavioral history, and presentation during this interview.” She kept her voice neutral, even as his attention made the room feel smaller.

“You look like a little girl playing doctor.” The insult came lazily, designed to test rather than dismiss her. Fay felt heat rise beneath her collar, but she did not take the bait. Men like Kent gathered information from every reaction, and she would not hand him hers freely.

“I assure you, I’m qualified.” She began outlining confidentiality limits and reporting requirements, though he appeared more interested in watching her mouth than hearing the rules. His composure was not the dull calm of resignation. It was the patience of a predator behind a fence he did not believe could hold him.

Fay looked briefly toward the observation window, hoping to see the guard stationed outside. The glass reflected only her own tense outline. She pulled herself back to the task. Allowing Kent to frighten her would compromise the assessment—and might confirm his belief that he controlled the room.

“Where do we begin, Ms. Thompson?” he asked, making her name sound more intimate than it was. Fay ignored the deliberate shift and found the first demographic field. There was comfort in starting with information so basic that no manipulation should have been possible.

“Please state your full name and date of birth.” She kept her pen poised. Kent’s faint smile disappeared, replaced by cool impatience. The change was subtle, but Fay marked it mentally. Even simple authority irritated him when it came from someone he had not chosen to obey.

“You’re well aware of my history.” His eyes held hers. The silence that followed felt like another locked door. Fay reminded herself that resistance was data, and data could be recorded. She would not let his reputation turn a routine question into a battle she was afraid to fight.

“This is standard procedure,” she replied. “The next questions will be more personal and psychological in nature.” She expected mockery. Instead, Kent leaned forward, bringing his broad shoulders over the table and shifting the balance of the room without rising from his chair.

“What gives you the right to ask me a thing?” he said. His voice remained quiet, which made the challenge more dangerous. Fay began explaining that the state had licensed her, but the words faltered when he reached across the table and caught her wrist.

The contact was swift and precise, not wild. Kent turned her hand palm-up and drew it toward him before she could pull away. Fay’s pulse hammered beneath his thumb. She knew she should call the guard, yet shock held her still for one crucial second.

Kent lowered his face toward the inside of her wrist and inhaled. “Chamomile,” he murmured, identifying the soap she used when anxiety kept her awake. His nose traced the air closer to her skin. “Lavender.” The observations were harmless, but the intimacy of them was not.

Fay yanked against his grip. It did not loosen. His thumb moved once over the frantic beat of her pulse, and humiliation joined her fear because her body had revealed what her expression tried to hide. This was no longer an interview; Kent had turned her into the subject.

“Release me, Mr. Lippert.” She aimed for command, but the final word came out thin. Kent’s gaze lifted slowly from her wrist to her face, reading the flush in her cheeks with unnerving certainty. Something sharpened in his expression, as if he had discovered a secret she did not know she carried openly.

His mouth curved, all dark amusement and forbidden knowledge. “You must be a virgin,” he said. The clinical room seemed to lose every breath of air as Fay realized the most dangerous man she had ever met had just identified the most private truth she possessed