Fall For My Ex's Mafia Dad

Chapter 0076

Shrugging, I skip back down the steps and decide impulsively that if I’m denied knowledge of the

storage centers above, I might as well explore those below. Without stopping to let myself think much

about it – lest I chicken out – I hurry down the stairs and push through the kitchen door.

I walk confidently across the kitchen, not avoiding eye-contact with anyone, but not initiating it either.

Instead, I simply glide through as if this is precisely what I’m supposed to do – as if, in fact, Kent

expressly told me to do it.

My tactic works and I smile as I push through the little white door, heading downstairs. Nobody stops

me and – I think – nobody really noticed me going by.

As I reach the hallway below, I realize that this place doesn’t hold any terror for me anymore. My

experiences yesterday got rid of those, replacing them with…well, with a little tremor of excitement that

pulses through me.

I consider this, for a moment – consider whether that’s healthy, really. Honestly, a girl like me should

have a healthy fear of the mob boss’s torture chamber basement. I was still naïve and new to this world

– there was still so much danger here for me, and yet here I was, walking through without a care.

Really, seriously, who was I anymore?

As I come to the end of the hallway and push through the door into the archives room, I realize that a

big part of me…doesn’t really care about the changes that I’m going through. That I like myself like this

– this bold, somewhat careless new Fay.

Maybe this new version of me was just some kind of trauma response to what happened yesterday?

But, I shrug as I stand in the middle of the room. Whatever. It’s better than being terrified all the time.

I take a minute to look over the stacks of porn sitting in the corner, but then I shake my head, deciding

against it. I am definitely curious – especially knowing that some of it is Kent’s homemade stuff – but…

no. Not today.

Instead, I move to the opposite side of the room, to where the photo books are. Some of them are very

old – a hundred years or more, even. The academic historian in me wants to explore those early

photographs, but instead I reach for the newer bindings further down, hoping for some information

about Daniel and his upbringing.

I take a few volumes over to the little chair, flipping through.

I smile, recognizing Daniel’s face in a few of the first photos, but then frown when I realize that they’re

too old – grainy old photos, with fashion from the 1980s…

I blink, shocked, realizing that these must be pictures of Kent when he was a child. Fascinated, I flip

through, looking at the people who must have been his mother and father, his family. I quickly flip to the

front of the book where I’m lucky enough to find a picture of a beautiful, dark-haired woman, who is

happily caressing her pregnant belly.

This, I’m sure, must be Kent’s mother. I study her face for a resemblance to her but frown when I can’t

find it. Kent’s looks, like Daniel’s, must likewise come from his father.

Hoping for pictures of Daniel as a child, I put this album down and pick up the next one. I’m shocked,

when I flip it open, to see that it’s actually Kent’s wedding album.

Slowly, I flip through the photos – black and white, surprisingly – and take in all the details of their

beautiful Italian wedding. It looks terribly romantic, situated at a beautiful vineyard, the couple’s private

table set up under a wide-branching olive tree.

There is a photograph, right at the beginning, of the beautiful bride, her stunning face quite serious as

she looks directly into the camera. Her dress is long, lace, and clinging – the opposite of the one that I

had chosen for my own wedding.

Or, well. The one Kent had chosen for me. I wonder, passingly, if it was an intentional choice,

remembering that none of the dresses selected for me looked anything like this.

I return my eyes to her face again, her hair tightly pulled back so as not to distract from her severe

expression as she raises her chin and looks proudly at the camera.

I find myself quite moved by her, curious about this noble – and, am I imagining it? A bit melancholy? –

mafia bride.

My thoughts are interrupted, though, by a single word that makes me jump almost out of my seat.

“Fay.” Kent’s tone is serious and disapproving as I raise my eyes to see him standing at the door, his

feet set wide apart, hands in his pockets as he frowns at me. “I told you not to come down here.”

I close the photo album languidly, holding his gaze. “Well, you wouldn’t take me to the stable. I got

bored.” I shrug a little. “You can’t expect a girl to stay in her room all day, can you?” Property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

He glares at me, and a little smile tugs at my lips as I hear a rumble growing in his chest.

God, but I do love to piss him off.