Falling for My Ex’s Mafia Dad — Episode 19
Fay tasted the eggs while Kent watched. They were soft, rich with butter, and seasoned perfectly; the sausage carried sweetness beneath the heat of peppers. She wanted to dislike everything he offered, but hunger defeated principle. The flavors reminded her that competence could be seductive even when the capable man was dangerous. “It’s good,” she admitted.
Kent’s satisfaction appeared too intimate for a cook receiving praise. He turned toward the espresso machine when Daniel asked whether anyone could make Fay a cappuccino. “I’ll handle it,” he said, as if allowing another person to prepare her drink would be an insult.
Fay watched him work the vintage machine with practiced ease. Steam curled around his rolled sleeves, and the room seemed to accommodate his movements without conscious instruction. The Mafia King who ordered kidnappings also understood grind, pressure, and the exact temperature required for milk. That contradiction disturbed her because monsters were easier to resist when they possessed no ordinary tenderness.
“Does he always cook?” she asked Daniel. Daniel shrugged. His father cooked when restless, angry, or concerned about the people under his roof. The last possibility made Fay look away before Daniel could interpret the warmth spreading across her face.
Kent returned with a porcelain cup small enough to fit in his palm. He slid it beside Fay’s plate. A leaf had been drawn through the foam, an unnecessary detail that contradicted every careless cruelty she associated with him.
She took a sip and closed her eyes before she could stop herself. Bitter espresso gave way to sweet milk and a faint almond warmth. The pleasure softened her posture, and when she opened her eyes, Kent was studying her mouth with unmistakable hunger. Daniel’s fork paused halfway to his plate, making Fay painfully aware that their private current had become visible to a third person.
“What did you add?” she asked, suddenly aware of Daniel across the table and dozens of people moving nearby. Kent named amaretto, explaining its notes of apricot and bitter almond. His low voice made the description sound less like coffee and more like a promise.
Fay wiped a dot of foam from her lower lip with her thumb. Kent followed the movement, and the temperature between them changed. She remembered how close he had stood in the club before the pendant interrupted him, and wondered what might have happened without it.
“I’m glad you approve,” Kent said. “When Alden arrives, I want him to hear that you were treated like a princess in my home.” The reminder shattered the illusion that breakfast existed simply because he wanted to please her.
Fay placed the cup down. “It’s almost as good as my dad’s.” She emphasized the final word, refusing to let a laboratory report erase David. Kent’s expression cooled, and Daniel stopped eating. The crowded kitchen quieted around the challenge, everyone sensing that breakfast had become a contest over who could define Fay’s family.
Kent touched one finger beneath Fay’s chin and turned her face toward him. “You have one father now,” he said. “Lorenzo Alden.” Fay held his gaze, furious that he treated love as another identity document his organization could invalidate.
“David raised me,” she replied. “Nothing you say changes that.” Kent’s thumb moved lightly along her cheek, an unsettling contrast to the authority in his voice. He told her sentiment would not protect David if enemies believed he still influenced the Alden heir.
Fay understood the warning but rejected the cruelty. Kent could teach her danger without demanding emotional obedience. She reminded him that his oath protected David and Janeen, including from anyone inside the Lippert family.
His eyes narrowed with something close to approval. Fay had used his own code against him. “Careful,” he murmured. “You’re learning faster than I expected.” The praise sent an unwanted flicker of satisfaction through her.
Then his expression turned wicked. “If you miss the title so badly, you can always call me Daddy.” Fay’s mouth fell open. Heat rushed into her face while nearby conversations faltered, several people suddenly fascinated by their coffee cups.
“Dad, seriously,” Daniel snapped. His chair scraped against the floor as he leaned forward. The irritation in his voice was sharper than embarrassment on Fay’s behalf; it carried the first spark of territorial conflict between father and son.
Kent laughed softly, apparently pleased to provoke both of them. Fay pulled her chin from his hand. “If you expect my respect, try showing me some. Lorenzo won’t appreciate hearing that his daughter was humiliated under your roof.”
The threat erased Kent’s smile. He cupped her cheek again, firmer this time, and told her respect was earned by understanding her place. Fay should have recoiled. Instead, the warmth of his palm and the command in his voice held her immobile. Her training supplied words like coercion and boundary violation, but naming the danger did nothing to silence her response.
Kent lifted a linen napkin and dabbed a trace of foam from her chin. The cloth dragged slowly across her lower lip, lingering until Fay’s breath caught. “Say thank you for breakfast,” he instructed, his gaze fixed on her mouth.
“Thank you,” Fay whispered. Kent released her and walked back toward the stove, leaving goose bumps along her arms. Daniel watched him go, then turned to Fay with a troubled expression. Neither of them could deny it anymore: Kent was not treating her like his son’s future wife.
