Page 5 of Single Mom's Daddies
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not. They were…older. Strong. All in black. Masks. Same tattoos.”
Lolita’s whole body perks up. “Samewhat?”
“Tattoo. On their left hands. Crosses with ivy.”
Her expression shifts—curiosity sharpening into something wary. “You got pictures?”
“Hell no. None of us did.”
“Jesus Christ. How was it?”
I just close my eyes and exhale.
Lolita shrieks. “I hate you.I hate you so much. I’ve been trying to get laid forweeks, and you walk in here dressed like Catwoman and pull a three-for-one.”
“I didn’tpullanyone. They picked me.”
“That’s worse! You didn’t evenshare.”
“They were mine,” I murmur.
She gapes at me. “Selfish.Absolutelyselfish.I hope they were worth it.”
I look back toward the house, toward the stairs, even though I know they’re gone. “They were.”
Lolita flops down next to me on the porch railing, grabs my water bottle, and takes a swig like she just ran a marathon. “You look like you’ve been wrecked and reborn.”
I laugh softly. “That about sums it up.”
“Hot.” She fans herself dramatically. “I amsojealous. So turned on right now I might go make out with that Frankenstein guy just to feel something.”
I laugh again, shoulders finally loosening. The tension I walked in with is gone. Blasted out of me by three sets of hands, three deep voices, three men who didn’t ask for anything but gave me everything. “If you ever get the chance to do something like that, go for it. I’m…there are no words.”
Her expression softens. “Well. Color me impressed. You’re usually the queen of overthinking. I didn’t think you had this kind of wild in you.”
“Neither did I.” Not really. As much as I’ve always wanted this kind of thing, I never thought it’d happen. Fantasies usually stay fantasies. I’ve always been buried under the weight of being the responsible one. The fixer. The planner. The girl with straight A’s and a strict dad and a thousand reasons to never, ever let go.
And yet…tonight, I did. And I don’t feel guilty. I feel alive. I close my eyes, savoring the memory of their touch. Behind my eyes, I see them again. Three men. Three masks. Three identical tattoos.
No names. No faces.
Just a night I’ll never forget.
2
ROMAN
The compound is too quiet.
That’s the first thing I notice. No splashing from the pool, no shouting from the kids, no cursing from Victor about Mila’s latest escape attempt or Alex turning the garden hose on the staff again. Just the hush that comes before something falls apart.
I stand on the second-floor balcony, nursing a black coffee that’s gone lukewarm. Below me, the yard stretches wide—lush green, neatly clipped, with red hibiscus blooming too brightly against the wrought-iron fence that borders the lawn. Beyond the pool, sun glints off the surface of the man-made pond, and beside it, a stone cottage is tucked into the trees like it grew there.
Olenna’s domain.
Aunt Olenna doesn’t need a moat or guard dogs. She has her knife, her guns, her will, and the silence of a woman who’s seen things most men can’t stomach. The cottage is her kingdom. She’s rarely left the compound after giving up control of the Bratva. She just stepped sideways into the role of our advisor.
