Page 40 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Luca

Connor was still running his mouth, every syllable about territory divisions and profit shares buzzing around like fucking flies. The air reeked of perfume mixed with alcohol, making my stomach turn. Even the air in this Irish prick's territory stank of something rotten.

"...so Mr. Bellomo, we take over operations for those Manhattan venues, split the profits seventy-thirty, and you sit back collecting your cut. Beautiful arrangement, wouldn't you say?" Connor leaned forward, his face plastered with that fake ass-kissing smile.

I picked up the crystal tumbler in front of me and leaned back, unconsciously tapping the glass. The soft tap-tap barely audible.

The long silence made Connor's fake smile start to crack around the edges.

Lennox stood like a shadow at my back, one step behind and to the side, completely still. But I knew every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like a bow drawn to breaking point, waiting for just one signal from me to put an arrow straight through this chattering Irish fuck.

"Fifty-fifty," I spoke at last. "Or I send Ragnar and his boys to 'assist' with your operations. Pick one."

Connor's fake smile froze solid, a flash of viciousness flickering through his beady eyes. He forced out a dry laugh, his throat making this wheezing sound like a broken bellows. He was just opening his mouth to squeeze out some bullshit response when the stage lights suddenly focused.

A brilliant spotlight hit center stage.

And then time—or at least my perception of it—stopped dead.

Connor's mouth kept moving, but the sound came through muffled, like we were underwater. My gaze cut through the hazy smoke, the chaotic lights, the blurred figures, and locked onto the figure caught in that beam of light.

A girl.

Slender build, fragile as a flower stem.

Wrapped in a deep green velvet outfit. The so-called costume was just a few scraps of fabric masquerading as art, barely covering the essentials while leaving expanses of silky skin exposed to countless hungry eyes.

She stood there like a deer suddenly thrown to wolves under searchlights, her whole body rigid, even her fingertips trembling with tiny, uncontrollable shakes.

She moved stiffly to the pounding, provocative beat. Her dancing had zero technique—hell, it was almost laughable. Her long chestnut hair swung in panicked arcs with each graceless movement. Every turn, every lift of her arms, was completely disconnected from this den of sex and sin.

She wasn't dancing. She was enduring torture—humiliating, soul-crushing torture she had no choice but to complete.

But what really grabbed me by the throat were her eyes.

No seduction there. No invitation. Just light blazing from the depths of despair, fierce and almost tragic. Heavy shame threatened to drown her, but something sharper—defiance—held it back. Tears gathered in her eyes, catching the light.

Even through the smoke and hazy lights, those amber eyes burned bright enough to stop my heart. Like a fucking star using its light to rip through all my indifference and seize the dead center of my vision.

"New girl?" Connor followed my gaze and let out a snort. His fat fingers waved the cigar toward the stage. "Face and body are prime meat, but she's too uptight. Needs proper breaking in."

I ignored him.

Every fiber of my being was locked on that figure on stage.

She turned clumsily, and our eyes met.

Those clear pupils contracted sharply, panic flashing through. Her movements stuttered to a halt. She unconsciously clutched at the scraps of fabric on her body, clearly desperate to flee.

Connor clicked his tongue impatiently, annoyed that the toy on stage wasn't performing properly.

His bloated body rocked back as he casually grabbed a wad of greasy hundreds from the money clip on the table. Without even looking, he flung them at the stage like tossing scraps to a beggar, dripping with contempt.

The green bills traced a short arc through the air before landing with a sharp slap right by her silver-heeled feet. Others immediately followed suit, money raining down like filthy fallen leaves.

In that instant, something alien erupted from deep in my chest like molten lava, flooding through my limbs, crashing against the rationality I prided myself on.

Pure, instinctive rage and disgust that wanted to burn everything to ash.

Disgust at those sticky gazes crawling over her.

Disgust at those dirty green bills floating through the air, trying to buy her current humiliation and her future.

Most of all, disgust at Connor, that fat pig, daring to touch what I'd claimed—even if only with his eyes and money.

She didn't belong here.

I wanted to drag her off that stage, wash her clean, then lock her away, and make her the most unique piece in my private collection.

The thought detonated in my consciousness with crystal clarity—a desire so foreign even I found it strange.

"Lennox." My voice cut through whatever vulgar commentary Connor was about to spew.

The shadow behind me glided forward half a step, bowing slightly. "Boss?" His voice stayed low.

My eyes never left that figure center stage.

"I wanna know all about her in one hour."

"Yes, Boss." Lennox's response came without hesitation, clean and efficient. He shifted slightly, his shadowy form melting into the crowd behind us, moving toward backstage.

The fat on Connor's face twitched, marked with the irritation of being completely dismissed. He forced out a dry chuckle, trying to regain control. "Excellent taste, Mr. Bellomo. Interested in this baby deer now? She's—"

"Connor," I cut him off, finally shifting my gaze from the stage to him, ignoring the self-satisfied cunning lurking in his eyes. "Those venues you mentioned. How were we splitting the profits again?"

He choked, that fake smile completely falling off his face, the viciousness in his eyes threatening to spill over. Though the negotiation table's power play had regained dominance, only I knew the desire ignited in my chest still simmered silently.

Vesperwood Manor lay steeped in near-absolute silence at midnight. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the sparse starlight outside. Only a solitary desk lamp lit the study, casting a yellow pool of light on the expensive mahogany desktop.

Lennox's efficiency never disappointed me. A thin file folder now lay quietly on the desk. No markings on the cover, but I knew it contained everything about that girl.

Just a few words sketching out a soul backed against life's cliff edge.

No wonder.

No wonder her eyes held the desperation of a last-ditch struggle, the fragility of something on the verge of collapse. Yet beneath it all, an unbreakable spirit showed through.

Her image invaded my mind again.

Pale, trembling shoulders under the lights. Those gazes wrapped in expensive suits, appraising her like merchandise. Those silent falling bills, reeking of greed.

A violent impulse surged without warning. The sapphire-studded pen on the desk went flying with a sweep of my hand, hitting the thick carpet with a muffled thud.

My gaze fell on the phone at the desk's corner. The cold metal casing gleamed darkly in the lamplight. A thought crystallized.

Contact her. Right now.

Screen unlocked, I didn't hesitate, quickly entering the number from Lennox's report.

Then my fingers moved again, the sound of typing sharp in the study's heartbeat-quiet silence. I don't like you undressing in front of other men.

Send.

The screen went dark. I tossed the phone back onto the smooth mahogany surface. The long ash on my cigar finally gave up, silently breaking off to scatter on the carpet.

I sank back into the leather chair. That inexplicable irritation hadn't disappeared. Instead, it mixed with something more intense—anticipation.

How would such a desperate little deer react to this sudden hunt?

What expressions would flash through those amber eyes?

I closed my eyes. In the darkness, those eyes became even clearer—fragile tears gathering in them, but underneath, that defiant light that refused to submit, silently staring back at me.

One second. Two seconds. Five seconds.

The phone's vibration shattered the silence.

Her reply came faster than expected, like a hissing kitten showing her claws. Who r u to judge?

An almost imperceptible curve touched my lips. Feisty. Good. This would be interesting.

Why become a stripper?

I wanted to know how deep she'd sunk into the mire.

That's how the cards were dealt. Just trying to play with mine.

Her reply sounded resigned but shot through with defiance.

Your fate shouldn't be this, stellina.

Almost the instant I set down the phone, the study's heavy doors opened silently, just a crack.

"Boss." Lennox's voice came from the doorway before he melted into the room like a shadow. "Connor's men have been active around the club. They seem to be watching that girl."

I didn't even turn around, my gaze still on that defiant line of text on the phone screen. A cold smile slowly curved my lips.

"Really?" My voice gave nothing away. "That greedy old dog Connor has a good nose."

Lennox inclined his head slightly. "He likely wants to use her as leverage. Either as a bargaining chip in negotiations, or to create problems for you."

I laughed coldly. "He could try. Have someone keep an eye on things."

Lennox nodded silently and vanished through the door.

The study fell quiet again. I picked up the phone, looking at that line about "how the cards were dealt," my finger slowly tracing across the cold screen.

She hadn't replied again.

The next day, she didn't go on stage. This pleased me greatly. Glad that you didn't perform tonight.

Who the hell r u? Why r u watching me?

I tapped on the screen. Stellina, does it really matter?

Don't call me that. I don't even know u.

Stubborn. I liked it. Oh, but I do know you, Sheila Stella.

Waiting to see her lose it.

Sure enough.

wtf? You investigated me?

Not really. I typed leisurely, teasing her. You gonna have dinner today? Or planning to go hungry back to your little apartment again? Your stomach will protest. That 24-hour store by your place—the sandwiches aren't bad. Better than gnawing on dry bread.

You're fucking watching me?

Just hoping you'll take care of yourself. Deflecting, but the words were sincere enough. Can't work if you're starving, right?

The phone went quiet.

The next day, Ragnar had just finished reporting about that shipment at the docks. I glanced out the window—rain was coming down hard. In a place like East Harlem, with weather like this.

I texted casually: Don't get caught in the rain, la mia stellina. Don't get sick.

Almost instantly, her message burst through: u nearby?

Do you want me to be?