Sexting the Don: An Age Gap, Mafia Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

“Have a good night, sir.”

With that, she’s gone.

I frown as the beauty who took my empty plate walks away. A woman who looks like that shouldn’t be serving food. My eyes follow her, lingering on her extraordinary ass as it sways with each step. The curve of her hips and the elegant line of her back draw me in. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, framing her diminutive yet shapely figure.

Watching her, my thoughts turn to possibilities. She looks out of place here, and I wonder if she might be interesting to get to know. There’s a certain vulnerability about her that is captivating, but she’s also beautiful and carries herself with a certain grace.

As if she senses that I’m watching her, she walks into the kitchen, the swinging door closing behind her.

And just like that, she’s out of my life.

I shift in my seat a bit, realizing I’m hard. How the hell did that woman manage to turn me on so suddenly, so intensely? Part of me wants to follow her into the kitchen and get her name and number. I want to ask her out and have her sitting across from me as soon as possible.

Then, after that, maybe have her writhing underneath me.

Kurt, the bartender, returns.

“Another Manhattan, Mr. Martelli?”

Two’s usually my limit, but a third sounds nice. And it might buy me a little more time in case the waitress returns.

“Please.”

Kurt’s off with a nod. I turn my attention back to my laptop, trying to remember the reason I’m here.

I look at the screen, trying to focus on the videos I’ve watched countless times. I’m searching for a mole within my organization, carefully reviewing footage from various businesses I own, meetings I’ve attended, and feeds from my spies.

Yet, after hours of scrutiny, I don’t recognize anyone suspicious. The frustration gnaws at me, as the absence of a clear mole suggests a leak instead.

Leaning back, I exhale sharply, the weight of uncertainty heavy on my shoulders. The rhythmic tap of my fingers against the laptop mingles with the din of plates and glasses and the mellow jazz from phantom speakers.

Despite the dim lighting, my gray eyes burn with focused intensity as I cycle through the feeds once more. But there’s nothing. No faces out of place, no unusual movements. It’s as if the threat is invisible.

With a sense of futility creeping in, I close the laptop and slip it into my bag. The leather is familiar and comforting against my fingertips. I pause, savoring the last of my Manhattan, the liquor dulling the edges of my frustration. As I place the empty glass on the bar, my gaze lands on an envelope with my name on it.

It wasn’t there before. The elegant script catches my attention. I pick up the envelope and frown, my instincts immediately on alert. I glance around the room, but no one seems out of place. The envelope’s unexpected appearance, amidst my focus on the mole hunt, feels like an intrusion.

I hesitate, then slip my finger under the flap, curiosity overtaking caution as I prepare to read its contents.

The message is straightforward, asking for help.

My name is Mandy Charles, and I am asking for your help. My father is in trouble with loan sharks, and we’re about to get evicted from our home. Please text or call me.

I scoff, wondering why some random woman would think I’d help a stranger. I’m not in the charity business.

I pause, considering the name. Could this be the waitress who cleared my plate? She’s the only person who came near me other than Kurt, and a letter like this is not his style.

I smirk, momentarily wondering what she might be willing to do for my help. I shake my head. I don’t need to play games to get a woman, and I’m not a piece of shit.

Still, something about the name nags at me. Mandy Charles. The surname is familiar, and I wrack my brain to remember where I’ve heard it before. My thoughts race, piecing together the puzzle. It’s then that it clicks—James ‘Jimmy’ Charles.

I pull my laptop out again, typing furiously into the secure database I subscribe to. It’s not cheap, but it provides invaluable information. Amanda ‘Mandy’ Charles pops up as the daughter of James ‘Jimmy’ and Florence Charles.

I sit back, absorbing the information. Jimmy works for the Garadinos, which aligns with my earlier suspicions. He’s always been a low-level player, trying to make it big without the competence to back up his ambitions. The guy owes one of my men a substantial sum due to a gambling debt, and now he’s trying to squeeze his family for help. Typical.

Is Jimmy the cause of Mandy’s distress? Probably. He’s a lowlife who consistently overestimates himself, repeatedly screwing up. That’s why he’s no longer a part of my organization. I kicked him out when he became a liability, preferring to distance myself from his constant troublemaking.

This new piece of information is remarkably interesting. It provides insight into why Mandy reached out. She’s likely desperate, seeking a way out from under her father’s mistakes. The fact that she’s coming to me, of all people, signals how dire her situation must be.

I consider my next steps. Helping Mandy would undermine the Garadinos indirectly. Removing their allies, even the less competent ones, would weaken their influence, and by addressing Jimmy’s gambling debt, I’d be reinforcing my own organization’s strength, eliminating internal weaknesses.

But beyond the strategic implications, something is intriguing about Mandy herself. She’s caught between her father’s failures and her own ambitions. Her vulnerability makes her appealing, yet she also demonstrates a surprising amount of bravery, reaching out to me despite the risks involved.

I smile to myself, contemplating the path ahead. Mandy’s situation aligns with my interests, and her plea for help provides an unexpected opportunity. It’s time to decide how to proceed, balancing my goals with the potential to assist a woman who might be worth more than just a passing glance.

This is all shaping up to be interesting indeed.