Falling for My Ex’s Mafia Dad — Episode 18
Fay slept only after dawn, and even then her dreams replayed Janeen’s slap and David’s final embrace. When she woke, sunlight filled a bedroom larger than her entire childhood living room. For one hopeful second, the mansion felt unreal. Then she saw the green dress discarded beside the bed.
Fresh clothes waited on a chair, selected in her size without anyone asking. A phone sat on the nightstand, but it connected only to household numbers and a security desk. Kent had replaced every necessity while carefully removing every route to independence.
Fay showered and dressed in dark jeans and a soft cream sweater, choosing the plainest items available. The mirror still showed expertly styled hair and traces of last night’s makeup. She scrubbed until her own freckles returned, small proof that the heiress costume had not permanently replaced her. The red mark from Janeen’s slap remained beneath the cosmetics, and Fay deliberately left it visible as a reminder of what this protection had cost.
A maid arrived to escort her downstairs. Fay said she could find the kitchen herself. The woman’s anxious glance toward the hallway revealed that allowing their protected guest to wander was not permitted, so Fay accepted the escort rather than punish an employee for Kent’s rules.
The mansion had transformed overnight. Men in tailored suits crossed paths with guards carrying rifles, housekeepers moved between rooms, and phones rang behind office doors. The Lippert home was not merely a residence; it was the headquarters of a business that preferred not to name its product.
Conversations quieted as Fay passed. Some people looked curious, others respectful, and a few calculated her value with the same cold attention Kent had shown the DNA report. News of the Alden daughter had already moved through the house. She began noting faces and reactions, using the observational habits of her profession to distinguish genuine welcome from political interest.
The kitchen was enormous, warm, and crowded. Espresso hissed from a vintage machine while cooks worked beside armed men drinking coffee. The domestic bustle unsettled Fay more than obvious menace. Criminal power apparently ate breakfast, traded jokes, and complained about early meetings like any ordinary family.
Daniel waved from a small table near the windows. He looked tired but lighter than he had in the sitting room, perhaps because they had defined the terms of their captivity together. A place had been set opposite him.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. Fay opened her mouth to deny it, but her stomach answered with a loud growl. Daniel laughed, and the familiar sound briefly returned them to the harmless beginning of their relationship.
She sat and asked whether Kent had heard them the night before. Daniel had seen his father outside the door but received no confrontation. That worried him more than anger would have. Kent rarely ignored information; he stored it until it became useful.
Fay lowered her voice. “Does he know about Colin?” Daniel shook his head. Colin had agreed to meet later, away from the estate, though getting past Lippert security would require an excuse. Fay offered to help if doing so did not endanger anyone.
Daniel thanked her, then looked around the busy room. Their engagement would be announced after Lorenzo arrived. Until then, Fay was not to leave the grounds. Officially it was protection. Daniel’s expression made clear he recognized imprisonment when he saw it.
“What happens when Lorenzo comes?” Fay asked. Daniel knew only the stories: Don Alden was wealthy, charming when it served him, and ruthless about family advantage. Kent considered him an ally, but never relaxed around him. Fay wished someone could describe her biological father without sounding like a threat assessment.
A cook approached, and Daniel asked for coffee and breakfast. Before the man answered, conversation near the stove shifted. Several guards stepped aside with instinctive respect, making room for someone emerging from the cooking area.
Kent appeared wearing black trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and a long butcher’s apron marked with grease. The domestic clothing should have made him less intimidating. Instead, it emphasized broad shoulders and the controlled strength of his hands.
Fay caught herself staring. She remembered those hands gripping her wrist in prison, carrying her from the club, and taking her mother’s knife. None of those memories explained why seeing him cook made warmth move through her with humiliating speed.
Kent carried a plate toward their table. Scrambled eggs, sausage with peppers, and thick Italian bread filled the air with butter and spice. He placed it before Fay rather than Daniel, revealing exactly whom he had been cooking for.
“Good morning,” he said. His gaze moved over her clean face and simple clothes, lingering as though he preferred the woman who had removed the heiress mask. Fay asked whether he had made the meal himself.
“Surprised?” Kent’s smile was brief and dangerous. He said an Italian man who could not prepare breakfast worthy of his mother had no right to call himself a man. Around them, several employees hid amused expressions, apparently familiar with this piece of Lippert doctrine.
Fay lifted her fork, but Kent remained beside her chair, watching for the first bite with an attention far too personal for hospitality. Across the table, Daniel noticed the same thing—and the guarded look he gave his father warned that their false engagement had already developed a very real complication.
