Daddy’s Little Obsession (The Don Who Owns Me)

FINA

I was still warm from the gym when everything fell apart.

That pleasant burn lingered in my thighs, my shoulders loose, my lungs open from the last run on the treadmill. I felt good—clear-headed, calm, almost light. I hadn’t realized how rare that feeling was until it was already slipping away.

Bruno didn’t complain the entire drive home, which should have warned me.

Normally, he always did. About my clothes. About men staring. About how my father would lose his mind if he knew what I wore outside the house. But this time, he said nothing. His hands stayed locked on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, jaw tight.

“Cousin? Why are you so quiet?” I asked, taking a sip of water.

“I’m not,” he said too quickly.

I turned toward the window, watching the familiar road curve toward home. The gates were open.

Wide open.

My stomach dipped.

Our gates were never open.

The estate came into view, and my steps slowed even before the car stopped. Black vehicles filled the driveway—sleek, identical, foreign. Men stood beside them, dressed in dark suits, their posture relaxed in the way men only are when they know they’re dangerous.

My heartbeat changed. Slower. Heavier.

“Bruno,” I said quietly. “Why are there strangers in front of our house?”

He didn’t look at me.

The car stopped.

“I’m sorry, Fina.”

The words were soft. Apologetic. Final.

Something cold slid down my spine.

I got out of the car without another word. The gravel crunched under my sneakers, loud in the silence. No one stopped me. A few of the men glanced my way, their gazes brief, assessing—like I was already something accounted for.

Inside, the house felt wrong.

Too still. Too careful.

My mother’s voice drifted from the sitting room, low and tense, speaking Italian. My grandmother answered her in clipped sentences, sharp with emotion. When they saw me, both went quiet.

My mother stood and crossed the room in three quick steps, pulling me into her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into my hair.

My heart thudded painfully. “Sorry for what?”

She didn’t answer. Her grip tightened, then loosened. My grandmother crossed herself.

“Your father is in his office,” my mother said softly. “He wants to see you.”

The walk down the hallway felt longer than it ever had. My reflection followed me in the mirrors—gym clothes, flushed skin, hair pulled back carelessly. I looked young. Unprepared. Exposed.

I knocked once and opened the door.

He was sitting across from my father’s desk.

Dario Severo.

Time didn’t stop—but it slowed enough for me to feel every second stretch.

He looked exactly like the memory I’d buried and sharper than I remembered. His blond hair brushed the collar of his dark suit, his posture relaxed, one ankle resting over his knee. He didn’t look surprised to see me.

He looked like he had been waiting.

My father stood when I entered. “Fina.”

Being born into a mafia cartel was not my choice but here we are, twenty-one turning twenty-two and I'd never done shit on my own. Never even drove myself.

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Dario.

The room felt smaller with him in it. He didn’t move, didn’t speak at first—just watched me with that same steady gaze that had once made my teenage heart do stupid, reckless things.

Family turned foe, that was his identity. The same man who watched me grow, who loved my family as we did him, my father’s best friend now turned enemy.

“So,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “This is why the house is full of strangers.”

Dario’s lips curved slightly—not a smile. Recognition.

“You’ve grown,” he said calmly.

The words unsettled me more than they should have.

“I didn’t come here for pleasantries,” I replied. “Why is he here?” I finally looked at my father.

My father exhaled slowly. “Sit down.”

I didn’t.

“We’ve reached an agreement,” he said.

The word agreement rang hollow. Dangerous.

For three years I'd watched these men kill their men, shed blood for this endless war between them, and now all of a sudden, this?

“With him?” I asked.

Dario stood then, unhurried, smoothing the front of his jacket. He was close before I realized he would be—too close. Not touching. Just enough to make me aware of him. Of everything.

“You were always observant,” he said quietly. “Even as a girl.”

Heat flared under my skin—anger, embarrassment, something else I refused to name.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t talk to me like you know me.”

His gaze flicked to my face, then lower to my breasts, just for a moment, before returning to my eyes. Controlled and Intentional.

“I know you,” he said. “Better than you think.”

My father cleared his throat. “The wedding will be in two days.”

The words didn’t register at first. They hovered, unreal. Then they landed.

I laughed under my breath. “That’s not funny.” but no one laughed with me.

I looked from my father to Dario, dread pooling in my chest. “You’re joking.”

Dario’s expression didn’t change.

“No,” he said simply.

Something inside me fractured—not loudly, not dramatically, just a quiet crack.

“I’m not marrying you,” I said.

Silence followed. My father looked away.

Dario stepped closer—not threatening, not forceful. He was calm and certain.

“You already are,” he said.

My throat tightened. “You don’t get to decide my life.”

His voice dropped slightly. “Your life was decided long before this room.”

I swallowed, fury and fear tangling together. “What am I to you?”

For the first time, something dark flickered in his eyes.

“A responsibility,” he said. Then, softer, “And the price of peace.”

The room felt too tight. Too final.

And somewhere, beneath the shock and anger, a truth I hated stirred awake—

I had never stopped feeling him.