ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

BONUS

FOUR YEARS LATER

RITA

I cherish Moments like This.

I lean against the doorframe, quietly watching Ilaria and Roman play.

"Who's Daddy's little princess?" he teases, sprawled on his back, effortlessly lifting her into the air as her tiny giggles fill the room.

"Me!" she squeals, her teensy limbs flailing in pure delight, cheeks flushed with mischief. Her joy fills every corner of my heart, making me smile.

"And who loves Daddy the most?" he asks, setting her gently on his chest, eyes softening as she nuzzles against his shirt, her hair a mane of curls.

"Me!" she cries again, wrapping her little arms around his neck.

The moment is so whole and full of affection that the killer side of him pushes so far back, the picture before me only pictures a father-and-daughter moment — a moment I am lucky to see.

"And who does Daddy love the most?" he smirks, his nose nuzzled in her mane.

"Me! I love Papi!" she beams.

"That's right. You are my world," he sighs, kissing her cheeks until her giggles and squeals brighten the room, bringing joy to my ears.

Once, that same word — Papi — stirred him. But after Ilaria came along and started calling him Papi, it got a whole different meaning, a meaning that's not in his world of desire. He literally expunged his previous feelings for this word.

Now, when I tease him with it, he scrunches his face in disgust. It's my favorite little tease word — watching that condescending composure crumble beneath a single word.

"I thought you told me you'd get her ready?" I ask, arms crossed and a bossy look, though my lips betray me with a smile I can't quite smother.

They both glance up. "I did," Roman says defensively, holding our daughter in the air like a doll. "She's wearing the dress you told me to. I even combed her hair."

I inhale deeply, gifting him a glance that says it all, and he frowns, knowing he did something wrong. "You can't just comb her hair, Roman—"

"I just did," he interrupts, putting Ilaria gently on the ground.

"I can see that. You've turned my daughter into a lion," I sigh, grabbing the comb from the dresser and settling onto the couch.

"Come here, my rose," I call to Ilaria, who's now lost in her dollhouse world. She gathers her dolls carefully, toddling over.

"She still looks beautiful," Roman remarks with a lazy grin, which is infuriatingly charming, so I rip my eyes from him before he sees me blushing and rips off my clothes.

"She does," I admit, fingers weaving through her curls. "But we can't take her to the event like this. People will think we don't take care of her."

"Who cares what people think?" he mutters from the floor.

Before I can scold him, Ilaria chirps, "FUCK!"

My eyes widen.

"Roman!" I gasp audibly.

"What?" He frowns, genuinely clueless, still not getting what vocabulary he put in my innocent baby's developing dictionary.

"Fuck!" she repeats proudly, clapping her hands.

"Roman!" I hiss again.

My chancla flies.

He slaps it away with a doll. "I didn't know marrying a Mexican woman came with a flying chancla," he jokes and points the doll in his hand toward me with a serious expression. "I'll ban chanclas from this mansion."