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CHAPTER1
Gennero
Of all my secrets and sins, there is only one that keeps me up at night.
And it’s dancing in pink leotards under the stage lights while I fist my pulsing erection in the back of the auditorium.
Carina Sophia Margarita Sabaro.
She’s a miracle. And my granddaughter. Step-granddaughter. And she’s eighteen, as though that makes me any less of a sinner.
I make the sign of the cross over my chest with my left hand, because my right one has a chokehold on my dick right now.
There’s no part of my dirty soul does not know these feelings are wrong. She’s been mine to raise for the last three years. She is my charge. I am her steward.
I should not do the things I do. Think the things I think.
Worrying about being on the right side of anything never bothered me before her. My entire life was built on wrong; and in my heart, nothing has ever felt more right than when I watch her dance. Or laugh. Or sew. Or read her smutty books. Or curse like a black-hearted soldier in my underworld army.
With her every fucking breath, my life changes.
High notes of Tchaikovsky spin in the log rafters with the morning sun coming in streaks through the skylights. The music twists around the wrought-iron chandeliers decorated with evergreen and red bows and cascades in luminous echoes throughout the hundred-seat auditorium I built just to watch her dance on stage.
For me.
The music toils along with my conscience as she spins on pointe, dipping her hands to the floor and then sweeping them upward, raising her chest like a thread of silk caught in a summer breeze. When her toe moves up to the sky, my cock does the same. She is an angel incarnate, sent to make me pay for my years of sin and depravity. The one thing in my life I desire more than anything else is untouchable.
Off limits.
The scent of evergreen and cinnamon from the fourteen decorated trees that line the back of the stage does nothing to cover the memory of the vanilla and sugar custom French shampoo I order especially for her that she used this morning in the shower.
I know because I watched her. I smelled her.
On the eve of her eighteenth birthday under the guise of updating her en-suite bathroom as a birthday gift, I had a crew gut the space, re-building it into a shrine of marble and glass along with installing a two-way mirror and a small vent with a fan that feeds me her scent as I watch her in depraved silence behind the glass.
God help me, I cannot stop.
It was a year ago when my desire dug its claws into me and refused to yield any longer. I succumbed at last to the weakness born inside of me by her now womanly curves and budding breasts. The fire-colored highlights in her auburn hair. The way her honey-brown eyes turned sensual and that V between her legs beckoned for my touch.
God, forgive me for the things I’ve done and the things I’ve yet to do.
She’s known me as nothing but Papa since she was six years old and her mother married my son. As in most marriages in my family, it was a business partnership devoid of love.
That emotion does not belong in my world. Nor in the world in which I live.
All those years ago, she stunned me into silence the first time we met with her sniffly nose and defiant golden eyes. She stirred my soul, but not in the way she does now. As a child, my feelings for her were not those of a lusty old man. Children do not interest me in that way. I’ve had the privilege of dismembering and de-balling a few lechers that preyed on the innocent over the years.
I break many laws, but some are sacrosanct.
I knew I would protect my granddaughter and guard her with my life. I would turn the seas red with the blood of anyone who brought a tear to her eye. Nothing had come close to what she spun inside me, not even when my own son was born.
I had ice in my veins.
As it happened, I knew her only for a few short years before I spent a decade behind bars. From there, I made a deal with those who wished me and mine dead. I would retreat to the north, abdicate my throne to my son and disappear into the frozen ether.
And for this, my family would be spared any wrath from rival families that should be directed toward me.
But, truces are fragile and promises are mere words washed away by lust and greed and blood.
