Page 92 of Use Me, Daddy

One week later

Aleksei

Boston had gone quiet.

It wasn’t peace—not truly—but the kind of uneasy silence that came when the power in the city shifted and lines were drawn. The Murphy family, the Kavanaghs, and the Morozovs standing together had sent a clear message to Mikhail Orlov.

That this wasn’t a fight he could win.

The Orlovs were brutal, but they weren’t stupid. The threat of three families united against them was more than enough to force their retreat. It was a calculated move, and Mikhail made it clear he wanted to avoid further bloodshed, at least for the time being.

After my rescue, Amy had taken care of me, patching up the wounds I’d earned during the fight at the docks. Her hands were gentle but firm, her eyes soft with worry even as she scolded mefor being reckless. I let her fuss over me, let her tend to me in a way no one else ever had.

It was pretty nice, actually.

I was as good as new a week later and the two of us had fallen back into a normal routine at the gallery, the only difference being that she went home with me at night and slept in my bed.

Tonight, though, was going to be special.

The car moved smoothly through the city streets, the soft hum of the engine barely audible over the sound of Amy’s voice as she spoke about something one of the gallery’s clients had said earlier that day. She sat beside me, her hands gesturing animatedly as she talked, her dark brunette hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders.

I barely heard the words.

All I could think about was the small velvet box tucked away in my jacket pocket and the decision I’d made—the decision I’d now realized was inevitable from the very first moment that we met.

Amy Whitaker was mine.

And tonight, I was going to make it official.

I’d spent days agonizing over how to propose. Amy wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted grand, public gestures. She hated feeling like she was on display, hated anything that made her feel like she wasn’t in control.

She was an artist at heart—thoughtful, creative, and fiercely independent. If I was going to do this, it had to be perfect. I had to speak to her in a way that no one else could.

That was also why I’d chosen the restaurant carefully. It wasn’t the most lavish or exclusive place in the city, but it had character—a quiet charm that Amy loved. The walls were adorned with local artwork, the menu hand-painted on canvases, and the lighting soft and intimate.

But the real surprise wasn’t the restaurant.

It was the painting.

I’d commissioned it from one of her favorite underrepresented female artists—a piece that captured her essence in every brushstroke. The colors were vivid, the details intricate, and the subject unmistakable. It was Amy, standing in a field of wildflowers, her head tilted back as if she were drinking in the sunlight.

The painting would be waiting for her at the restaurant, hung in a private room I’d reserved for the occasion. And beneath it, I would kneel and ask her to be mine forever.

“You’re quiet,” Amy said suddenly, her voice pulling me from my thoughts.

I glanced at her, offering a faint smile. “Just thinking.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, and she tilted her head. “About what?”

“You’ll see,” I said, my tone deliberately teasing.

She narrowed her eyes, her lips curving into a suspicious smile. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

“Always,” I replied smoothly, reaching over to take her hand.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away, her fingers threading through mine as she leaned back against the seat.

The rest of the drive passed by in easy silence and when we finally reached the restaurant and stepped inside, I let out a shaky breath.

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