The Power of a Woman: A Mafia Erotic Romance by Gina Whitney, Leddy Harper Page B

twenty-five and could walk into any casino without question. He flaunted his money—or his borrowed money—and loved the rich life. He liked affluent, beautiful women, but loved money more. I blamed it on the way we were raised, living in the life only made it easier to fall down that rabbit hole.
    “I hate to say it, but he’s been bailed out too many times. Why would he change if we continue running to his aid, pulling him out of trouble? But don’t worry, we’ll get him help, Daddy,” I said in the hopes of giving him some comfort. But by “we,” I didn’t mean my father and myself… No, I meant Stefan and me.
    We were a team on our way up a mountain.
    I’d agreed to follow him.

The morning sun reflected off the pool and streamed shades of blue through the window, illuminating the wisps of dust motes in the air. I pulled in a languid breath and held it for a moment. For the first time in a few days, my muscles didn’t ache. I smiled at that notion. However, I realized I had a different feminine ache only Stefan could quench.
    I had tried to reach out to him a few times over the last week, yet he continued to give me the same response—”you need time to heal.”
    Fuck that.
    Time seemed to stretch out, and I feared the separation between us would last forever. I looked at my watch before I stepped into a pretty summer dress. I needed some time with him. He wanted me to heal. However, what he didn’t understand was that my healing rested in his hands—literally. His hand, his mouth, and his cock. Besides, it was way too beautiful a morning to stay in my bed—alone. The longing I felt for him was on autopilot and completely independent. I was a woman on a mission. I had questions that needed answers, and this had to be done in person. He’d abated me with his short texts long enough. Before any family interruptions, I ran down the stairs, kissed my father’s cheek chastely, and bolted toward the door.
    He dramatically cleared his throat, which meant stop right there . I knew without a doubt the questions that would come. “Where are you going so early, Jordana?” His eyes scanned me, searching for compliance.
    “Gym.” My eyes closed as I remembered the clothes I had put on. Fuck . I wasn’t dressed for the gym. Quick. Quick. Quick .
    “Dressed like that?” I heard the rustle of his newspaper as he closed it and set it aside, which meant he’d start his worrying shit. Jesus, today was not the day for this.
    “Umm, actually, I have my clothes in my locker. I’ll change there. I’m planning on meeting Laura and doing lunch.” I shrugged before meeting his eyes, hoping like hell he believed me. The good thing about being the only daughter was being a Daddy’s girl. And with that title came manipulation. The kind of manipulation that all fathers were born blind to.
    He ran his hand over his freshly shaven face, and the scent of his after-shave reminded me of when I was a kid. His eyes narrowed and I knew the wheels and cogs were turning, so I stood firm, meeting his gaze as we squared off. I didn’t smirk or blink. Only stared.
    He nodded. Bingo . “I think the gym and Laura will be good for you. Maybe work off some of your anger over the mugging. You could use a meal, Jordana. Where’s my girl and her appetite?” His fingers came together in front of his face—it was the Italian way. “I wish you would eat. Then I’d know you’re happy. This…” He gestured toward my disappearing figure. “…isn’t a happy Jordana.” His lips thinned and his eyes watered.
    Food and our culture go hand in hand. It’s not merely a means for survival, it defines who we are. I mentally chastised myself to keep from rolling my eyes. He had no idea what I’d been through in the past week. The abuse I’d suffered. He only knew the story I chose to tell him. I needed to beat him at his game, so I stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
    “Daddy, you’re always right.” I smiled innocently up at him.