Page 12 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Gennady

The whiskey in my glass caught the dim light, swirling amber and gold like it had a life of its own. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in my suite, staring out at Chicago's skyline—thousands of lights twinkling under my control, a city I had by the throat.

But my head wasn't in it.

Fuck.

My eyes kept drifting to the bed behind me, all messed up, sheets tangled.

Cassie was still there, passed out, curled up on her side.

Her fiery red hair spilled across the pillow, glowing like embers in the low light.

The sheet had slipped down, showing off a creamy shoulder and the faint marks I had left on her skin.

Her face was soft, peaceful, lips curved in a faint, satisfied smile.

Looking at her, something twisted in my chest—something raw, unfamiliar, almost fragile. It was unsettling as hell.

For twenty years, my mind had been a machine—cold, calculated, lethal. Whether I was putting a traitor in the ground, closing a multimillion-dollar deal, or outmaneuvering rival crews in a bloodbath, nothing had ever shaken my focus. Not even when Isabella was alive.

But now—

Her image burned in my mind. Her silky skin under moonlight, trembling under my touch. The way she had felt, so tight, so perfect, that desperate, needy moan when I had claimed her for the first time. Goddamn.

My body tightened, blood rushing south. Just the memory was enough to make me lose it.

This wasn't right. This kind of obsession made you weak, and in my world, weak got you dead. I should've walked out, left her sleeping, and gotten my head back in the game. But when I reached the door, I froze.

Walking out like that—after taking her like that, her first time—felt too cold, even for me.

I turned back, standing over the bed, staring at her soft features. After a long moment, I leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her forehead. She hummed softly in her sleep, instinctively shifting toward my warmth.

That small move hit me like a punch, making my heart clench.

I grabbed a pen and jotted a note on the nightstand: "Breakfast's on its way. Last night was something else, Моя розочка. —G"

Back at the estate, dawn was breaking, gray light creeping over the horizon. I had barely slept, but there was work to do—piles of papers waiting in my study. Deals to close, enemies to watch. Except I couldn't focus. My mind was stuck on her. Cassie. My rose.

A knock snapped me out of it.

"Come in," I said, my voice hard, but there was an edge to it, rougher than usual.

Dimitri stepped inside, his face grim, holding a black leather folder—the kind we used for sensitive intel. "Boss, Antonio talked," he said, setting it on my desk. "You're gonna wanna hear this."

I nodded for him to sit, forcing my focus away from Cassie. "Go."

"Antonio admitted he leaked the East End warehouse info," Dimitri said, voice low. "But it's not some lowlife pulling the strings."

My eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"The Bailey family."

The name dropped the room's temperature to arctic levels. The Baileys—southern old money, ruthless, no code. Their reach shouldn't have been anywhere near Chicago.

"Details," I said, my fingers tapping the desk—a habit when I was thinking, or when shit was about to hit the fan.

"Antonio said someone approached him, offered a fat stack to spill our shipping routes and schedules. Whoever it was knew our operation inside out—Antonio's gambling debts, his daughter's school. Everything." Dimitri paused, his jaw tight. "This wasn't random, Boss. Someone's playing chess."

A name flashed in my mind, one that made my blood boil.

Marco Moretti. That slimy, psychotic Italian bastard.

Three years ago, he had butchered an entire apartment building in Philly—men, women, kids, even babies—seventy-three bodies, all because he suspected a leak.

If he was behind this, it wasn't just business. It was war.

"What else did Antonio say?" My voice was low, dangerous, like the calm before a storm.

"They talked about a 'new order' in Chicago, said it was time for old families to step aside for 'visionary leadership.'" Dimitri's eyes flashed with anger. "And, Boss… they know about Anya."

Rage hit me like a freight train. I stood, slamming the whiskey glass down, amber liquid splashing. Anyone who threatened my daughter was a dead man walking.

"Put eyes on Marco, twenty-four-seven," I said, my voice ice-cold. "I want to know what he eats, what he drinks, when he fucking sleeps."

Dimitri nodded, understanding the unspoken promise in my tone. "And Anya?"

"Tighten security around the estate and her kindergarten. No unfamiliar faces anywhere near her."

"Got it, Boss." He headed for the door.

"One more thing," I called out. "No mistakes. Marco's a dead man if he tries anything."

The door clicked shut, and I sank back into my chair, fury still burning. That bastard thought he could come for my family? I'd bury him.

My phone lit up, pulling me out of my rage. A message. From her.

Cassie: Saw your note. And breakfast. Thx.

Seeing her name did something to me—calmed the storm, just a little. It was unsettling. One minute, I was plotting Marco's end; the next, her name had me feeling… warm? Fuck. This pull she had on me was stronger than I thought.

Another message popped up.

Cassie: Nobody's ever done that for me before. Woke up to your scent on the sheets, and it's got me thinking about last night. What you did to me.

Jesus Christ. She was coming in hot.

Cassie: Can't stop thinking about your hands, your kisses, the way you made me feel things I didn't even know were possible.

My grip tightened on the phone, my body reacting instantly, flashing back to her trembling beneath me, those desperate moans. Fuck, Cassie.

Me: You playing with fire, Cassie.

Cassie: Thinking about you. That a crime?

Her reply was bold, teasing, hitting me like a shot of vodka.

Cassie: Or was last night just another night for you?

She was baiting me, and damn if it wasn't working.

Me: If you think last night was just another night, you're dead wrong.

Cassie: Then what was it?

She was pushing, relentless.

Cassie: Cause for me, it was the first time I felt like a woman. Sitting here, remembering how you touched me, I'm burning up.

Goddamn. This woman was gonna kill me. She had been a virgin yesterday, and now she was tearing me apart with words.

Me: You're playing a dangerous game, Cassie.

Cassie: Dangerous?

Her reply was instant.

Cassie: I like dangerous. You showed me that last night. Love how it feels to lose control, to be yours.

Cassie: And I want more.

I nearly dropped the phone. She was unraveling me, piece by piece, with every word.

Cassie: I know this is bold, but I miss your touch. Miss how you pushed me to the edge. Sometimes I think last night was the real me—the brave me, the one who's not afraid to want.

Fuck. I was pacing the room now, trying to keep my head straight, but she had me spiraling.

Me: You want more?

My fingers shook as I typed, my control slipping.

Cassie: Hell yeah.

Her answer was short, certain.

Cassie: Want you to touch me again, make me feel that rush, that total surrender. It's embarrassing how much I want it, but I'm not lying.

Then she hit me with the knockout punch.

Cassie: And I keep thinking… wouldn't it be nice if someone did those sweet, romantic things for me? Like in the movies—surprise flowers, little gestures. Sounds cheesy, but after last night, I feel like I deserve it.

That was it. That one fucking sentence.

She wasn't just the shy kindergarten teacher anymore. She was awake, bold, demanding what she wanted. And I wanted to be the one to give it to her—every damn thing she was craving.

"Dimitri!" I barked into the intercom, grabbing my coat.

"Boss?"

"Get the car. I'm heading out."

"Where to?"

I paused. "Flower shop."

Chicago's streets blurred past the tinted windows of my Bentley.

I was in the back, staring out, wondering what the hell I was doing.

Gennady Sokolov, the man who made the city's underworld shake, was on his way to buy flowers.

For a woman. If my enemies had caught wind of this, they would've had a field day.

But I couldn't stop. This need to protect her, to spoil her, was stronger than reason.

Elsa's Florist was tucked on a quiet downtown street, open 24/7 for rich bastards like me with last-minute demands. The owner, a sixty-something Italian woman who had supposedly done arrangements for the Pope, looked up as I walked in, her eyes widening.

"Mr. Sokolov!" She hustled over, all smiles. "You, in person? What do you need?"

"Roses," I said, keeping it short. "The best red ones you've got."

Her eyes lit up with understanding. A guy like me didn't buy flowers for no reason. "This way."

She led me to a refrigerated room packed with roses, but my eyes locked on a cluster in the corner—twelve deep red blooms, so perfect they looked like they were bleeding silk. They were stunning, just like her.

"Those," I said, pointing.

"Excellent choice!" Elsa beamed. "Fresh from Holland this morning, hand-picked. They'll stay gorgeous for at least a week."

A week. Long enough for her to enjoy them.

"Gift wrap?" she asked. "We've got silk ribbons, custom—"

"Keep it simple," I cut her off. "And a card."

She handed me an ivory card and a pen. I stared at it, and for the first time in my life, I was at a loss. Words were my weapon—carefully chosen in boardrooms, deadly in negotiations. But now? My mind was blank.

What did I write? I'm thinking of you? Too forward. Hope you like these? Too weak. I want to see you again? Too much.

Elsa sensed my hesitation and slipped away, giving me space. I closed my eyes, thinking of our texts, her craving for romance, for someone to make her feel special. She wanted to be remembered, cherished. And I wanted her to know she wasn't just a fling—not to me.

I wrote: "To my rose, You deserve every beautiful thing. —G"

The second I finished, I realized I was already planning our next meeting. This wasn't just a one-night thing, not just about her body. I wanted her time, her thoughts, her everything.

This hunger was more dangerous than any drug, exposing a weakness I couldn't afford. But picturing her face when she got those flowers? That made it worth it.

"Wrap it," I told Elsa, handing her the card. "Send it to this address. Now."

I scribbled down the school's address. I had known where she lived—checked that out weeks ago—but she didn't need to know that.

Elsa took the paper, her eyes curious but smart enough not to ask questions. "Done, Mr. Sokolov. It'll be there."

Back in the car, I leaned into the leather seat, a strange mix of satisfaction and anticipation settling in. I was waiting for her reaction, her next text, the next time I'd see her.

The car glided toward the estate, back to my world of power and blood. But that day, my mind wasn't on the game.

It was on her.

And that scared the shit out of me. But it was also fucking thrilling.