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The zipper is loud in the silence, but her humming cuts through it, so innocent and maddening. I shove the fabric aside and wrap my hand around myself, hard and leaking already because just seeing her like this, so damp and unaware, has me fucked beyond reason.

The screen glows with her. That towel barely covers her thighs, and I picture ripping it off and pinning her to a corner as my fingers bruise her hips while she squirms. I stroke myself slowly at first, imagining her throat under my palm, squeezing just enough to feel her pulse jump and her gasps choke out as I fuck her against the wall.

She would fight it, maybe, but then she would break and moan my name while I took her apart.

I want her bent over that sink, ass up and my hands fisting her wet hair as I pound into her from behind. Then on her back, her legs spread wide and pinned down so she can’t move while I bury myself deep with every thrust, making her tits bounce, her eyes wide and glassy.

My pace picks up, and the fantasies spiral.

I want her on her knees, choking on cock, her tears streaking her face as I force her to take it all.

Then I’d flip her over on her stomach down on the floor with my weight crushing her while I fuck her raw with no mercy, no pause until she is screaming, begging.

I want to fill her every way I can, mouth, cunt, ass, mark her so she can’t wash me off, so she feels me for days. My sick head spins with it. There will be no limit when I take her body under mine. She is mine to ruin, mine to own. Mine forever.

The whiskey glass hits the table, forgotten, and I am jerking faster now, eyes locked on her as she bends to grab something and her towel rides up. That little flash of skin snaps me.

I’m heaving and I am close, so fucking close.

"Penelope," I groan, low and guttural, her name a curse, a prayer, a claim. It rips through me, and I come so hard I’m spilling over my hand. It’s so hot and messy as I chant her name on my lips again, like she is here, like she knows.

I slump back, panting and staring at the screen, where she is still humming, still clueless, and it is not enough. It will never be enough until she is mine for real.

***

The next day, Tommy’s back with worse news. “They hit another spot. Took out two more crates. Then left a note—‘Face us, Vieri, or she’s next.’”

My blood goes cold. I was right. They know. They fucking know. I shove the table, papers scattering. “Get everyone. We’re ending this.”

But as I gear up, my mind is on her. Not the fight, not the bodies I am going to be piling up by the end of today, just her. I see her laughing with Theodore in the pictures Frankie sent today, their heads too close, her smile too bright, and it is a blade twisting deeper until I can taste blood.

How can she sit there, giggling with that bastard, when she let me bury my face between her thighs in my office? How could she let him lean in, let him make her smile, when she was moaning my name with her legs shaking under my tongue?

I hold my gun so tight that the metal bites my palm, but all I see is her with him.

Theodore. The kid I am going to carve into pieces today.

I will start slow, drag him somewhere quiet, and tie him up so he can’t squirm away.

First, I will break his jaw and let him choke on his own teeth for daring to speak to her.

Then I will take a knife with a jagged edge and peel his skin off strip by strip, then watch him scream while I tell him she is mine and that every laugh she gave him belongs to me.

I will gut him slowly, allowing his insides to spill out while he is still alive and still twitching so he knows what happens when he touches what is not his.

I will leave his eyes for last, gouge them out with my thumbs because he does not deserve to have ever seen her smile.

My gut churns, but my cock twitches too, because this rage is tangled up with her.

That day in my office keeps replaying, over and over, like a drug I can’t quit.

How I had her pinned against my desk when she did what she did best, riling me up.

I did not fuck her, no, I held back, but I shoved her skirt up, ripped her panties, and licked her until she was dripping.

Her hands grabbed my hair and pulled, her thighs clamping around my head while she whimpered my name like it was the only word she knew.

I sucked her clit hard, tongue fucking her deep, and she came undone, shuddering, soaking my chin, her voice breaking on these little gasps that I can still hear.

I have not thought of anything else since, not my guilt for going this far with my daughter’s best friend, nor my empire that is riding on a deal I’ve been briefed on, not the kills, just her intoxicating taste, her heat, the way she bucked against my mouth like she needed me.

I should have taken her then, bent her over, and fucked her raw, but I stopped, and now it is eating me alive.

What am I even protecting? An empire? Or a woman who does not know I am watching her every move, who does not know I am unraveling because she smiled at fucking Theodore?

I catch my reflection in the office bathroom mirror, eyes shadowed and jaw locked, a king in the dark losing his hold.

I built all this to never feel weak, to never need anyone, and now I am breaking every rule for her.

I do not know if I am chasing power anymore or just her shadow, but I am in too deep to stop.

"Boss," Tommy calls, snapping me back. "We rolling?"

"Yeah." I grab my gun, voice steady but gut churning. "Let’s go."

But as I step out a few hours later, I glance at the feed one last time. She is curled up on her couch, reading, peaceful, like she did not just rip my world apart with that smile she gave him. That image of her with Theodore, her laugh echoes in my skull, mocking me while I drown in it.

For a split second, I wonder what it would be like to walk in, sit beside her, and let the world rot.

Then I shake it off. That is not my life.

Never will be. Aside from us being from two different worlds and the monumental age gap, she is my dead daughter’s best friend. And she died because of her.