Daddy's Italian Friend Read online

  Daddy’s Italian Friend

  Yes, Daddy: Book 5

  Lena Little

  © 2020 by Lena Little

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Also by Lena Little

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  He’s here, my dads old Italian friend, and my long time secret crush, even though I’ve only seen him in pictures growing up.

  The man has been my fantasy since before I knew what fantasies were.

  This is my chance. I’ve only got one more week under this roof and I’m not pulling any punches.

  I don’t have time to waste, and need to turn up the heat on this sauce I’m trying to get cooking between us so he devours me like he did that lasagne I slaved over for him.

  The man is six foot five inches of pure scariness, but that scariness leads to a kind of obsession I want to feel directed my way.

  And the moment the word, papà, slides from my lips I know I’ve got him, hook, line, and sinker.

  Because that’s what I want him to be. My Daddy.

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  1

  Giovanni

  I’ve been in underground poker tournaments in Naples. Witnessed nightclub shootouts in Milan. But here, at my best friend’s kitchen table in the American suburbs, is most definitely the most dangerous location of them all.

  Because of her. Gabriella Taylor, my best friend’s eighteen-year-old daughter who’s currently trying to star in a real-life adaptation of Lolita, or the music video from English rock band The Police for “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.”

  Although she’s clear across the kitchen, standing by the stove, she’s still way too close to me.

  The thought of laying low at my buddy Tim’s house for a few weeks looked like a good plan, on paper, until my eyes got one look at her.

  “Am I doing it right…Gio?” she asks, putting her best Italian accent on my name as she prepares after-lunch coffee in what is clearly a brand new Bialetti coffee maker, the kind you find in every house back home…where I should have stayed despite the fact I was just as equally a dead man there as I will be here if Tim sees the way I’m looking at his daughter.

  Oh, principessa…the ways you tease me.

  My eyes rake over her tiny little body, her white tank top way too tight and the heat from the kitchen making it way too revealing. If that weren’t enough those cut-off denim shorts look like they got cut off about six inches too high, the cotton pockets hanging well below the bottom of the denim exposing her way to young ass cheeks.

  I move in my seat, trying to get relief from my suddenly locked and loaded manhood which is ready to teach this little tart a lesson about teasing men like me. But that’s just it, she’s a tart, a young virgin who has no idea what kind of evil man she’s tempting with her forbidden, and surely untouched fruit.

  Maneuvering again I can’t eliminate the pinching and twisting feeling in my pants, my erection demanding to be freed.

  “Is this your first time handling one of those things?” I shoot back, answering her question with one of my own.

  “How could you tell? Is it obvious I don’t have much experience handling hard things.”

  “Hard things?” I swallow.

  “You know. It’s hard,” she says, tapping the back of her knuckle against the hot stainless steel. “And it’s hard…as in hard to resist,” she adds, tossing her minuscule weight to one side so her shorts hiked up so high I can practically see where her leg attaches to her pelvis.

  I haven’t been at the Taylor house for more than three hours, and I haven’t spent less than three minutes of that time not imagining myself inside of her.

  I should go. I should grab my unpacked duffel bag and leave. Now.

  I’ve got enough money to rent a room somewhere, and pay cash at that. I can catch up with Tim later in the week, but if I rent a room somebody is going to ask for ID, and that’s where the problems begin.

  And the number one problem I have right now is her, the girl who was supposed to be living with her mom somewhere in the South of France after Tim's wife ran off with a rich Greek shipping heir.

  It’s clear where Gabriella got her looks from, and it’s also clear she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. The only question is, how far does this little troublemaker really want to push this?

  I’ve sat across the table from some of La Cosa Nostra’s toughest bosses and didn’t flinch. But why am I doing everything I can to keep my eyes off her, yet failing miserably?

  And who’s more miserable right now? Me, or Tim. He’s the doting father who worked his butt off as an accountant so his family could have a good life, only to come home to his wife with another man in the same home where this piccolina in front of me was conceived. And my mind is conceiving a lot of ideas of all the things I could do to her right now while her father is sleeping off the lasagne alla bolognese his daughter prepared for my arrival lunch.

  I have to admit, I’m impressed with her skills in the kitchen. If she were a bit older and were willing to learn some skills in the bedroom, I’d make her mine this very second. Of course with the caveat being she couldn’t be my best friend’s daughter.

  Usually when I’m abroad people offer me spaghetti alla bolognese, not knowing that Italians don’t eat it at home and find it to be completely inauthentic, unlike her actions toward me…I think.

  How in the world am I going to survive here one night downstairs on the couch when I know she’s just a few steps away, alone, in her room wanting me to come and teach her things a little girl needs to learn one day.

  But not at the hand of a thirty-nine-year-old man whose hands have spilled blood, broken laws, and crushed the hopes and dreams of rival families all in the name of La Cosa Nostra. I just need to keep my hands off her for seven days, until she leaves for graphic design school. Until that time I can keep myself busy outside the house during the day, and just come back here to sleep. Once she’s gone I won’t have any way to get to her, not to mention she’ll be way too far away. Then my problems will be solved for good or at least the bambina in front of me will be out of my life.

  “Tim, you want to join us for coffee?” I call out, making sure he can hear me from the other room, but when I don’t catch his response I listen harder and all I can hear is the sound of him snoring. Gabriella’s lips curve up at the ends as she slithers toward me like a snake in the grass, ready to offer me that forbidden fruit of hers, but thankfully it’s only a cup of coffee.

  Or at least it should be, but of course, it’s not.

  Bending her knee, she places her shin on my thigh and leans across me for no reason, setting the coffee down in front of me, and her breasts a hairsbreadth from my face. If I stuck out my tongue I could flick her rock hard nipple that’s poking through the paper-thin fabric of her tank top, but instead, I remain leaned back in my seat.

  My hands find the edges of my chair and I grab them hard, trying to will myself in place like I’m in a straight jacket, my arms pressing into the sides of my massive frame.

  Her body slides back slightly until she’s able to pull some sort of
contortionist move where her body is still impossibly close to mine, while her lips come insanely close to grazing my ear. “Uncle Gio,” she whispers, “I prepared a little something for you, to welcome you home.”

  “I’m Italian,” I growl. “This isn’t my home and I’m not your uncle.”

  “But you lived here when my dad was…younger than me. And you even used to sleep in my room.” She pauses. “Maybe you’d like to sleep up there one more time, for old times sake…and new experiences too.”

  “In Italy, you serve coffee with a glass of water. You took the time to learn how to cook lasagne that well, but you didn’t learn the basics of Italian coffee presentation,” I ramble. It’s true, but it’s completely inconsequential at this point. I just need to be stern with her and get her away from me before I explode. “Understand?”

  “I understand a lot more than you realize?” she fires back, yet sulks toward the fridge, her lower lip jutted out as she drops ice cubes into a glass.

  “And Europeans don’t use ice cubes like you Americans do.”

  “I know that it’s just that with all that sweat coming off your temple. I thought you might want some help cooling off. Or do you prefer to keep the temperature turned up?” she asks over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

  It’s clear from her banter that this tesoro mio reads, which is also evident by her Kindle sitting on the table next to her sketchbook. I bring my hand to my face, wiping my brow. Of course, the little girl who’s got me sprung is quick-witted with a fiery tongue. Her dad says she’s as independent as they come, a loner because no one her age can keep up. I already know that every interaction with her is going to be fireworks, I just hope the pyrotechnics these little conversations I’m trying to avoid don’t blow up in my face.

  And speaking of faces, I need to quit staring at those youthful, feminine features of hers as she refuses to take her eyes off me. Normally the primal superiority contest that manifests itself in the form of stare-downs is my thing. But why am I trying my hardest to avoid sustained eye contact with a girl who’s not even old enough to drink, while everything in my mind and body tells me to drink in the sight of her…because there’s no one else like her in this world?

  But her life is just beginning, and the world is there for the taking for a girl who’s sharp as a tack like she is. The last thing I want to do is step on her toes and keep her here where she grew up, clipping her wings before she even gets airborne.

  “Come on, let me show you, Gio,” she purrs as she sets the water down next to my coffee, trying to play the same game with my thigh again but I scoot my chair just in time and she comes up empty. “Don’t you want to support a young girl’s education? Show her if she understands Italian culture correctly or not? I thought you Italians were fiercely proud.”

  Is she really going to tempt me with all seven of the deadly sins in a period of a few hours?

  “Ok, bambi. Whatchu got?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest partly in a display of defiance and partly to remind me to keep my hands to myself.

  Never taking her eyes off mine, she reaches for her sketchbook and slides it in front of my face yet keeping it closed.

  “I know you’re gonna like it,” she offers, but I say nothing. “I just need you to tell me if I’ve drawn everything right. Everything…to size?”

  I don’t move a muscle, although my jaw is tightening by the second. I know this troublemaker is setting me up for something but I’m too committed now and I have to see what she’s got that’s so important.

  “No promises,” I suggest, giving myself room to jump out of my seat and go if this gets out of hand, although I have no idea how I’m even going to be able to stand considering there’s no way I can do so right now without snapping the steel pipe in-between my legs in half.

  “You’re right,” she counters. “No promises because you don’t want to hurt my feelings. But…I need to learn about a lot of things, and someone with your worldly experience can teach me. So…” she trails off, moving back toward the sink and opening up a sliding drawer. “If I’m wrong then I guess I’ll have to be punished.”

  I shake my head in disbelief as she’s back at the table in a second, a lightweight wooden spoon in her hand…one that I could crack over her ass with one swat.

  “I hear in Italy people aren’t afraid to discipline children, unlike here,” she adds, slowly and playfully bringing the back of the bowl of the spoon into her opposite palm.

  “You’re not a child, Gabriella. You’re an adult.” I’m not taking the bait.

  “Then why did you call me bambi…papà?”

  But now she’s got me, hook, line, and sinker. Something inside me flips, like a light switch lighting up an entire football stadium, and my arms uncross and I grab her by the wrist.

  “What did you call me?”

  She licks her lips and smiles like the Cheshire Cat.

  “Oh,” she says, her other hand covering her lips in fake surprise. “You liked that…Daddy.”

  People say a man has two lives, and the second one begins when he knows he has only one left. The moment that word, papà, slid from her lips it was like everything that had ever existed in my life before was meaningless. It was like I had a new purpose in life…to make her mine. To protect her. To keep her safe. To be hers in all ways. To put her first, always. To leave my past behind, and start a future with her. But no way in hell can I admit that to her.

  “I’m not your daddy, and I’ll remind you your father is asleep in the other room, not ten meters from here.”

  “Ten meters…that's almost like eleven yards, right? Is ten…big?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Ten. Would that be considered big?” she asks, her eyes sliding down to my waist.

  “Cristo,” I grunt. “What the hell’s wrong with you, cara?” I add, the Italian word for ‘dear’ slipping from my lips.

  “I just want to make sure I got the proportions of my drawing right,” she says with an oversized, childish frown as her hand drops from her mouth and she yanks open her sketchbook.

  And I immediately drop my hand from her wrist, my entire body feeling boneless at the sight in front of me.

  2

  Gabriella

  Gio’s entire body freezes before he growls something under his breath, then finally something that passes for words slips from his lips. “What the…”

  “It’s you,” I quickly respond, knowing he knows exactly who it is. I’ve drawn him as almost a cartoonish superhero, with oversized muscles despite the fact that his muscles are already oversized. He’s leaning forward, propping up the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  The picture in and of itself is good, nothing you wouldn’t get from one of those people who sit outside on a summer day and sketches you for ten bucks. Where I deviated is when it comes to one tiny thing, or in Gio’s case, not tiny at all.

  “Did I get the dimension right?” I ask, flicking the eraser of my pencil toward the cock in the drawing. “I guessed about ten inches. Am I close?”

  With dad napping in the other room and Gio’s eyes looking me up and down like he was just released from an Italian prison, I know I’m playing with fire. And I hope to get burned.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks.

  “Too much time on my hands and no one to put my hands on?”

  “What?” he asks, half of his face scrunching together.

  “Undersexed and over-sexualized.”

  I’ve only got one more week under this roof and I’m not pulling any punches. I’ve seen pictures of Gio and my dad for years, all throughout my time growing up. The man has been my fantasy since before I knew what fantasies were.

  “Has your dad seen this?” he asks, almost letting the word Daddy slip from his lips. I want him to say it, I need him to say it. The way he called me bambi already set me off, and it’s not because it’s my favorite Disney movie of all time. I know what bambi means in Italian, and from the look
in his eyes when he said it it’s more than just a term of endearment he’d throw around to anyone.

  “Not yet,” I slyly reply.

  “Grazie a dio.”

  “Should we show him?”

  “No! Madonna e dio, no!”

  “You don’t like it?” I tease, trying my hardest to get him to say something positive about it, about my work, and hopefully continue down that path and eventually say something positive about me. All I need is for him to confess his feelings and I’ll be all over him like a wet dishrag.

  I don’t have time to waste, and need to turn up the heat on this sauce I’m trying to get cooking between us so he devours me like he did that lasagne I slaved over, prepared to exact Italian specs.

  I’m completely infatuated with this man and the life he lives. He puts off this ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, but underneath it all I know he does…and it’s obvious he does from what’s trying to break free from underneath his clothes.

  The man is six foot five inches of pure scariness, but that scariness leads to a kind of obsession I want to feel directed my way. This isn’t the kind of guy you bump into every day, especially in the suburbs. As a matter of fact, I’ve never met anyone like him, and I only met him a few hours ago.

  The way he commands any room he’s in, despite this being our house, excites me. The way my dad defers to him looks up to him both physically, and the way he speaks with him turns me on. Gio has more masculinity in his little finger than guys my age do in their entire bodies.