“Polar bears! They’re so cute! I wish I could have one.”
“It would eat you alive,piccolina.”
“Nuh uh.” She accepted the cup and took a sip. “My polar bear wouldn’t eat anyone. He would be a nice polar bear.”
“It isn’t in a polar bear’s nature to be gentle.”
“It isn’t in a mob boss’s nature, either,” she said quietly, studying the cup she held between them. “But you’re gentle, even though I don’t deserve it.”
“I wasn’t gentle earlier,” he pointed out with only a slight twinge of guilt.
Pink colored her cheeks and she sipped her milk again. “No, but you weren’t mean, either. By all accounts, I should be dead by now. You’ve shown me far more kindness than I deserved.”
“Even when I whipped your poor little bottom?” He kept the tone light and teasing, trying to not give away how much her answer really meant to him.
“Yes,Daddy,” she shot back in kind. “I’ll take a few welts and bruises over... well. You know the people who run in our circles. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you.”
Indeed, she didn’t. His blood ran cold at the thought of anyone else having discovered her in their bed, with a syringe full of some unknown drug or poison. Death would have been a mercy compared to what they would have done to her.
Still, he wasn’t a saint, himself. And perhaps it was unconscionably selfish of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go, even knowing she deserved someone who would give her the kindness and gentleness he couldn’t.
Pushing his dark thoughts aside, he smiled at her. “Are you finished with your milk,piccolina?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, yawning and handing him the empty cup.
“Good girl. Let’s get you tucked into bed.”
He let her use the restroom alone, hoping that show of faith would help in his crusade to earn her trust. When she was restrained (blind faith only went so far, after all), he did something he never did with his little ones. He climbed into bed beside her and, with an arm wrapped around her middle, fell asleep right beside her.
Chapter Eight
The sun filtering throughthe window roused her from sleep the next morning. Rolling onto her back, she stretched, then winced at the various aches and pains making themselves known. The night before came rushing back to her and she grinned at the ceiling.
If that was Emilio Rinaldi’s brand of torture, he could interrogate her any time.
Guilt followed hot on the heels of her morning-after glow. She hadn’t been completely asleep the night before when Benny had come to deliver her milk, and she’d heard every word.