Mafia Daddy: Protect me (Please, Daddy Book 2)

by Tina Little

  Mafia Daddy

  Please Daddy

  Tina Little

  T Z Z Publisher

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Jamie

  In Jamie’s Rise & Grind, my little coffee shop, the morning rush for coffee and pastries is over. The little bell jingles over the door as it closes behind the last of the early customers, and there’s nobody else left.

  My two helpers have gone, and I’ve cleared away all the crockery and spruced the place up. Sun streams in the big window from the little Main Street outside.

  Finally, I can take a break.

  I spend the free time on the phone with Summer, my trusted supplier of all things baked and my BFF, we’re decompressing. We chat at about this time every day while we make orders for tomorrow’s cakes, pies, and wraps. This is our opportunity to dish and spill. Sorry, ‘network.’

  We discuss pastry and related issues, while I take advantage of a blueberry chocolate muffin.

  Mid bite, I’m struck by a vision climbing out of a red Italian sports car and rising to a dark, statuesque form on the sidewalk in front of my little shop. My attention drifts and wanders, ambling down alleyways and slipping into dark corners while I’m mentally pawing his suit, tracing his tatts and getting my hands scratched on his hard beard.

  Summer notices that I have not been completely listening to what she was telling me. I slow my chew on the muffin.

  “Summer, a guy just stepped out of a red Maserati. He’s tall. Big, all over. Dark curls, chiseled cheekbones, a dusting of beard. Summer, he’s way too old and he’s so hot it’s got to be illegal. He’s hot as a bowl of chillies, smoking like a fat cigar.”

  “Sounds dreamy –“ Sumner says, wistfully.

  “He’s got the lips of an angel and the eyes of a devil,” a chill runs down my spine, like I said something I shouldn’t have. “Three guys got out of the SUV behind him. Summer, they look like henchmen. Bulging out of their T-shirts, covered in ink. Mirror shades, the whole deal.”

  “Sounds like the Mafia’s come to town, Jamie.“

  “This guy though,” I flip the camera on the phone so I can show Summer the moan-inducing eyes and the super-bitable buns of his smoking hot ass.

  “I mean, he’s way too old. And I’m not looking anyway. You know that. I don’t want a man. What could be worse at this point in my life, right? I’m focused on getting the shop up and running. I don’t want to be down on my knees…”

  “… What?” she laughs. I can imagine her, wide -eyed, open-mouthed.

  “Distracted, I said. I don’t want to be distracted.”

  Summer giggles, “I thought you said –“

  “Summer, I’m sure those guys are henchmen of some sort. Swaggering behind him. They so look like hired muscle.”

  “Keep the camera straight. I can’t get a look.”

  “Wait, let me zoom in.” I pinch the picture zoom in on the guy. He looks even better bigger. “Mmm. and he is big. I just heard one of the hench-persons call him Angelo. I mean, does he look like an angel to you?”

  “No, Jamie. He looks like a mobster.”

  My voice is trailing, “He does.”

  “No, Jamie. I mean looks like a mobster called Angelo Franconi. Exactly like him.”

  My voice is still drifting some. “Franconi. Wait, Franconi as in… OMG, you’re kidding me, right? They’re supposed to be like, really scary. Serious mobsters. The real deal.”

  “Yes, Jamie. Those Franconi’s. Angelo is the head of that family.”

  I want to say he’s not old enough. Though he easily is. Distinguished little wisps of grey brush the sites of his temples. Perfectly styled and coiffured, obviously.

  I only recently opened my little coffee shop—do stop by, try our selection of premium Arabicas, specially roasted—is a hot perk in this short section of Main Street alongside the other small store-front businesses. Moms come with toddlers and strollers to chat and catch up over a latte in the morning. Office workers flood in at lunchtimes to grab bags of Summer’s scrumptious pastries, and take them out with lemonade, Chai or fruit juices. Or even coffee.

  Old, stuffed leather armchairs and couches huddle at the back around worn, mismatched but nicely polished tables. Artworks hang on scraped-back brick walls. Opal and stained glass hanging lamps bathe the nooks and the open space in a warm, comfortable glow. Music plays low and soft in the background.

  The effect is soothing and restful, but it’s smart enough to attract the digital nomads. The kind of place where bright young tech entrepreneurs come to drink coffee next to writers and artists. Not exactly bohemian, but definitely laid-back.

  All day long, the dark-stained wood tables are occupied with smatterings of laptop warriors, regularly dosing up with espresso, soaking up the free Wi-Fi. Grazing on panini or croissants, sandwiches or wraps. Trade is brisk and word-of-mouth is good.

  The bottom line, not so much.

  So I give no more thought to Mr. Mobster, the panty-melting Angelo Franconi. Not much, anyway.

  After the lunchtime rush, I’m clearing up. I’m thinking about ways I could make the place more profitable. Donna and Chris, the two girls I have help me for the lunchtime rush, have left and it’s just me for the rest of the day. Chris comes in the morning for an hour from seven-thirty, too. I want full-time staff but there just isn’t the money for it yet. Cash flow would kill me dead.

  No-one else is left in the place now. I’m bent over a table, polishing, when I hear the little bell and I see someone coming in. I look up and find that I’m locked, straight into his mesmerizing, golden-brown eyes.

  I’m not prepared for how big he is. Or how absurdly self-confident. He has a take-what-I-want swagger, even standing still. With his head slightly on one side, a long curl of his black hair dangling over his forehead, he looks at me like he’s deciding how to have me. Like a predator watching a small animal. Wondering whether to eat it now, or play with it some first.

  His Adams apple cocks and he asks me, “Your fucking coffee. Is it good?”

  I flinch. A voice like bourbon over sweet molasses. Strong, low, and thick. And dirty.

  “The best,” I’m straightening up. As I do, he watches every part of me.

  The white shirt that I wear for work with the long points on the collar is not too revealing. But then, I do have a lot to cover. I thought about it enough times before and I’m sure it’s perfect. Well, I was sure. Now I’m wondering if the neck was too far open while I was bent over the table, polishing.

  Although, if anything, I’d say he was looking at my ass more than peering down my cleavage.

  Whatever he was looking at, his lip is curling in a way that suggests he wants more.

  “Wait while I get behind the counter,” I tell him, turning awkwardly while I’m still locked in his eyes.

  I never once felt so self-conscious, tripping across the tiled floor of my own coffee bar. I feel like he’s watching my curves, through the soft silky pants. Sizing me up. I feel his eyes all over me. My skin prickles. The insides of my thighs tremble. My mouth dries a little.

  Behind the counter, and feeling a little better protected, I ask him, “So, what can I get you?”

  “What’s good?” The twist o
f a sardonic smile that plays across his lips really begs for an open-handed slap. I so want to reach across the counter and show him what a good slap feels like.

  “Everything is great,” I tell him. I try not to be distracted as his eyes roam over my curves.

  I ask him, “What do you like?”

  “I like all of what I see.”

  Without missing a beat I look behind me. The pride of Jamie’s Rise & Grind, my Italian espresso machine and grinder. I look back at the man. Angelo. No, definitely no angel. “Espresso, then?”

  “That wasn’t what I was looking at.” His grin is sly and unmistakably filthy. Little pulses begin to rumble up at the tops of my thighs. “But, sure,” he says, “Why not? Espresso. Make it a double.”

  I tell him the price and he smiles, “Lot of businesses around here,” he looks around, twirling a finger in the air, “They like to make us feel welcome.”

  “I aim to make all of my customers feel welcome. And you are. Very. I hope you’ll love the coffee. I’ll make it for you with the greatest love and care. And I hope I’ll see you return for many more.” I give him my most winning smile. “Card or cash?”

  My breath halts as he narrows his eyes. Putting a twenty on the counter he says, “I don’t carry change. So keep it.”

  I pull out one of our Rise & Grind cards and mark all eight little coffee cups with the rubber stamp.

  “Next one is on the house,” I tell him.

  “So you want me to come back.”

  “Of course. That’s why it’s called a loyalty card. I want you to buy all of your coffee here.”

  “Fucking A.”

  I’m not at all sure what that means. I have to make the espresso with my back to him which makes me more self-conscious than ever. I’m resisting the urge to prattle away nervously at him. The temptation to talk a mile a minute about nothing whatsoever. Giggle and make a fool of myself. Somehow, I manage not to do any of that and I’m feeling pretty proud of myself for it.

  The double shot of espresso pipes perfectly into the little demitasse cup, and as it pours, I turn the cup to make my signature logo heart shape in the thin foam of golden crema on the shiny surface of the dark coffee.

  I turn to the side of the counter to serve the coffee, put the demitasse onto a saucer, by the sugar and napkins and stirrers. As he comes around to collect the espresso, the cup he sees the heart. That sarcastic little look in his eye gleams as he peers at me down through his long lashes. “That’s kind of forward, isn’t it?”

  I laugh nervously, a lot more than I mean to. Well, I don’t mean to laugh at all. Not nervously. Especially not that. And as I’m turning, my elbow bashes the lever that controls the steam to froth the milk.

  I’m keeping as cool as I can. Feelings surge inside me and I’m feeling ready to burst. He makes me want things I never thought about.

  Of course, there is no jug of milk under the nozzle. So I blast a jet of steam halfway across the coffee bar.

  It sprays a foam jet of water vapor with hot milk, straight at his beautiful silk shirt. Splashing over his tailored silk suit coat.

  Chapter 2

  Angelo

  She’s perfect.

  When she turns, she shows something that’s every bit as arousing as the innocent glow that lights her face. That’s the filthy little wiggle of her ass. In those soft, silky pants, I could just grab that and eat it whole. Her thighs are not so clear, because the pants are loose. Since the material is light and soft, they give me thrilling glimpses and ideas of the curves underneath.

  Those are definitely woman-shaped thighs. My cock is already aching and stretching the fabric at the front of my pants. My pulse is hammering for her. She’s a woman-shaped woman, all crammed in a petite, curvy package. I want to wrap her up and take her home. Then never let her out again. I want to tie her to my bed. Oh, my God. If I start thinking that way, I’m going to come in my pants.

  She leads me out back, into a tiny kitchen. A sink and drainer is piled with dishes, plates and cups. There’s a big fridge, and a counter with cutting boards. Apart from that there’s just the table in the middle of the tiny room. Sturdy, marble-topped.

  She takes a clean cloth and wets it in the sink. Damn, she can wet me. Anywhere she fucking likes. I have some good ideas of places she could start.

  She turns back and her big eyes shine up into mine. With a finger, she pushes on my stomach to get me to sit up on the edge of the table. The touch of her little hand against my abs makes my pulses zing.

  Intently, she dabs the damp cloth on my chest, where my shirt got sprayed. Her eyes don’t move up. She stays looking intently at my chest, as she dabs at my suit coat. It’s pretty much ruined. But I don’t care. I have plenty of thousand dollar suits.

  She looks up. Her eyes flicker and a spark glows dark inside me as she pulls her lips between her teeth. There’s a gleam in her eye that takes me back somewhere, far beyond my memory.

  Then her eyes flick downward. And she gasps. I think she spotted the fucking road drill trying to bang its way out the front of my pants.

  As she gasps, she leans forward. Her beautiful, soft, round tits slide along the tops of my thigh. I can’t resist leaning down toward her.

  I’m still a proper Italian gentleman, though. I move slowly. My hand strokes her hair and she responds. I stroke the back of her neck. Run my fingers down her spine a little. I watch as her head turns up, and her eyes find mine. Her throat opens as she tips her head back. I lean down. My mouth is close enough to hers to taste the strawberry sweetness of her breath.

  Her delicate, secret scents thrill my nostrils and swirl in my head. Her lips part. Wet. And her eyelids flutter. My lips find hers.

  Gently, I take the beginning of a kiss. Her lips mold to mine. She responds. Hesitating. Her lips are warm. Full. Welcoming.

  Then faster. Hot and hard.

  My arms wrap around her. Pull her closer to me. Our kiss deepens. I pull her tight. Her arms fling around my neck. I press my tongue to hers and she comes to life in my hands as she kisses me back. Eager. Electric.

  Little sounds squeak from her throat as she pulls herself close against my hard chest. We lose ourselves in each other, in the kiss. It feels like forever, and it ends all too soon.

  Her arms are tight around my neck as she pulls back. She looks in my eyes. She presses forward. She’s between my thighs. Her breasts are almost touching my cock. She looks down.

  Her mouth tightens. She slaps my face.

  Fuck, I could fall in love with this woman.

  There’s a sound outside. A little bell, jingling.

  “Come,” she says, turning quickly. I nearly did, too.

  I follow her back out into the coffee shop. She stands behind the counter, smiling. Ready to take an order from a couple of construction workers. Their eyes are feasting on her, and I want to bash the brains out of them both. I have a range of options.

  I could shoot both the motherfuckers, right here and now. That would make horrible stains on Jamie’s nice floor. I could beat the living shit out of them. That would still make an awful mess, too, though. Furniture could break.

  Or, I can exercise some restraint. That has never been one of my specialist subjects. Still, as they tell her what they want, and she pulls things together for them—fruit juice, pastries, and chai—and she asks them if they want to have it in or take-out, I’m watching her beautiful ass. Full, round, and wonderful in those soft pants.

  Keeping my eyes on the construction workers, I slide my hand down the back of those soft pants. She doesn’t show any reaction. I feel the hot, beautiful, round flesh of her ass. Slip my finger down through the crack. Slide along and up, between her thighs. Feel how wet she is at the top. She’s dripping, slick, hot, eager. And ready. I rub along the insides of her wings. Push at the base of her hot little bean. She clenches and trembles.

  And her face is giving away nothing.

  She doesn’t miss a beat. She uses long tongs to bag their pastries and
she pours hot water into a paper cup, onto a bag of chai, and sets a little bottle of juice on the counter.

  All the time, her little pussy is tight, gripping and squeezing. Pulling on my fingers.

  The men chat with her, passing the time of day. Trying to get her attention. But they see me. One look in my face and they know not to push it.

  They’d have to be looking hard to notice her making any response to the press of my hand. All that I can detect is the way her eyes shine and her pupils widen.