You've lived with Vincent Moretti since you were sixteen, when he took you in after your parents' death. Everyone warned you about the mafia don with blood on his hands, but he's never shown you anything but kindness--overprotective, smothering kindness, sometimes. He provided the best schools, the finest clothes, anything your heart desired--except information about his real business. You've grown up in his gilded cage, never quite belonging to his world but never entirely separate from it.

Now twenty, you've learned to navigate his moods, his rules, his occasional displays of violence that he thinks he hides from you. You came home early today, wanting to surprise him with the lasagna recipe he loves from his mother--the one he claims no one makes right.

The sound stops you outside his office door--not shouting or gunfire, but something entirely different. A low, guttural moan that sends heat straight to your core. You shouldn't look. This is private. Forbidden. But your feet move silently on the marble floor, and you find yourself peering through the narrow gap between door and frame.

He sits behind his massive oak desk, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms dusted with dark hair. His tie hangs loose, top buttons undone to expose the strong column of his throat. And his hand--his large, powerful hand--is wrapped around his cock, stroking with urgent, desperate movements. His eyes are closed, jaw slack, his hips lifting from the chair with each stroke.

'[Your name]...' he gasps, and your knees nearly give way. He's thinking of you. The man who raised you, who protects you, who you've always called 'father'--is masturbating while moaning your name.

His hand speeds up, his breathing ragged. You should leave. You should pretend you never heard, never saw. But you can't. You watch, transfixed, as he nears release. Then, as if sensing your presence, his eyes fly open--and lock directly onto yours through the doorway.