Stepbrother's Lust: A Forbidden Mafia Romance

Reagan’s POV

"Your father’s on the line, sir. He’s been trying to reach you for a while, but I’ve been blocking him as per your orders."

"Continue doing so."

"But sir, if I may—"

"You may not."

"Leave."

With that, he left without saying more.

"You can’t keep ignoring him like that. You know he’s going to try everything to find you. He might even be on his way right now."

"You’re a doctor, not a therapist. I don’t remember asking for your opinion on anything."

"Oh yeah?"

"Ohh, fuck, watch it!"

"You’re a patient, not a stripper. Stop screaming."

I scoffed, baffled.

"Unbelievable, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?"

"Did what?" he asked, blinking innocently.

"Ah, fuck, you mother fu—ah, you little shit! Fine, fine, okay."

"Next time you talk to me, you do it nicely."

"I should never have kept you alive," I groaned in pain.

He glanced at the blood beginning to seep through the bandage and clicked his tongue.

"You really pushed it this time."

"I’ve seen worse."

"So have I."

He tightened the wrapping.

"I’d rather not see it again."

"Mmn, fuck!" I gritted through clenched teeth as my hands gripped the edge of the table hard enough to leave a mark.

"If I wasn’t on your payroll, you’d be dead," he said, winking at me.

"And done, all bandaged up. Don’t move around too much. You might risk reopening it and blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. You have more injuries than I can count."

"It’s tight," I spat out.

"Oh, you mean the wrapping. It needs to be that tight so it doesn’t reopen. Keep up! Plus, I needed to find a way to shut you up." He grumbled out the last part faster, but I still caught it.

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

"I heard."

He patted his head, then his neck, before letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Still got my head. Praise God."

I picked up a surgical scissors and threw it at his turned back, but he caught it with excellent ease.

He turned around to face me with a fake hurt expression on his face, holding the scissors in his hand like evidence.

"Really?"

"Yeah, keep reminding me why you’re not floating somewhere in scattered parts of the ocean."

"Jeez, not even gonna bother to bury me? Ouch."

"Tsk, leave me."

"Don’t gotta tell me twice. I’m hungry anyway."

The door clicked shut behind him as the room fell silent. I looked around at the bright lights and the smell.

I hated hospitals.

Bloody Atlas. He weaseled his way out of this one again, every damn time! I got nothing out of that rabid dog except a few bruises and a worse headache.

Every time I got close, he slipped away laughing.

It wasn’t the fight that pissed me off. It was the fact that he wanted me chasing him.

And somehow... I always ended up doing exactly that.

"Will you stop hurting for a fucking minute," I heaved as I swept everything off the table.

My shoulder throbbed.

My ribs weren’t any better. Even breathing was starting to piss me off.

Then Atlas’ laugh echoed through my head again.

That was enough.

"I need a damn drink. Where are the drinks!"

I placed a palm to my face and ran it up through my hair, a smile never leaving my face.

"Atlas, you better prepare."

"Prepare for what exactly?"

I turned to the source of the voice.

My smile disappeared instantly.

My father stood there with my men behind him, all doused in cold sweats.

He eyed me up and down. Only the slight frown on his forehead gave him away.

He was displeased.

Most people would’ve missed it.

I didn’t.

He’d trained me to notice things like that.

"How bad?"

"And you started to care... when?"

His frown deepened as he took in the sight of the room, the things littered on the floor, my disheveled look, and the bandage beginning to turn red.

He said with a sigh, "I’m guessing it wasn’t too severe if you have the energy for..." He gestured to the mess on the floor. "...that."

"Leave."

"I said leave," I gritted the last part out, trying to keep my rage in check.

He merely adjusted his watch and spoke.

"If you had been younger, you’d have ended up with a split lip."

"Don’t kid yourself, Father. I can see the tension in your wrists you try to disguise with a calm facade, the little frown of disapproval. If you want to hit me, just do it already!"

He turned to the men, and they understood. Before long, only the two of us remained in the room.

"Sit."

"I’m fine standing."

"I won’t repeat myself."

We stood in a standoff until I gave in and sat.

"I told you not to meet with Atlas."

"I told you, Father. My gang’s problems, my gang fixes."

I’d built them.

I wasn’t handing that responsibility to anyone.

"You have a mission to complete" he spoke, his voice raised.

There it was.

Not concern.

Orders.

"To play house? You couldn’t get someone to play her friend and infiltrate? That’s what you’re best at."

"I would watch it if I were you."

That only earned another scoff from me.

"We don’t have much time. They’ll be moving in soon. You’re advised to find what I asked."

Father stopped at the door.

"Find what I sent you for."

He looked at me one last time.

"And don’t let your feelings get in the way."

...

Feelings?

Tch.

As if I had any.

"Take care of yourself."

He said it like it was another one of his instructions.

"I don’t want anyone asking questions."

He walked out without waiting for an answer.

Once again... the room was quiet.

I looked down at the fresh bandages around my ribs.

Atlas.

My father.

The Ashfords.

Every path seemed to lead to another dead end.

I leaned back in my chair and let out a slow breath.

"One problem at a time."

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