My Husband Sold Me To The Mafia King Who Turned Out To Be My Daddy Chapter 07
After the basement, I move into the Whitmore estate. Recovery.
The place is huge. Every corner screams money. But to me? It just feels cold. Dead cold.
Seven years since Mom died. Seven years since I stormed out. I haven’t set foot inside since.
For the next two weeks, my dad becomes my personal nurse.
Every single day. Rain or shine. He cooks himself. Carries the tray up to my room himself. Peels my pills one by one. With his own hands.
This afternoon, he pushes the door open with a fresh bowl of soup.
“Cora. Sweetheart. Try to eat something.”
“Doctor says you need the protein. To heal up. I’ve been at the stove for four hours—”
He holds the bowl out to me. Careful. Eyes desperate to please.
I don’t take it.
I stare at him. This groveling old man.
And all I can see is that rainy night. My mom, dying in a wreck. And him — in another woman’s bed.
Something snaps in me. Hot. Ugly.
I swing my good hand.
Crack.
The whole bowl smashes to the floor.
Porcelain shatters. Scalding broth soaks his shirt. Splashes onto the back of his hand. His skin goes red.
The air freezes.
Outside the door, I can hear the bodyguards stop breathing.
But my dad doesn’t yell.
He just crouches down. Doesn’t even care about the shards cutting into his fingers. He starts picking up the mess. Piece by piece.
“It’s okay. Don’t want this one. I’ll make you something else.”
His voice is soft. Empty. Broken.
“Enough!”
I lose it.
My eyes burn. I jab a finger at him.
“Don’t you dare play the loving father with me!”
“You think a bowl of soup fixes anything?!”
“Why? Why did you cheat on her?!”
“If you’d just kept it in your pants — Mom would still be here!”
“She wouldn’t have been on that road!”
“She wouldn’t have —”
“God, they couldn’t even put her body back together!”
“You being nice to me now?! What does that fix?! Can you bring her back?!”
My scream tears through the empty room.
My dad’s hands go still on the broken pieces. The porcelain slices his fingers. Blood drips onto the floor.
He stands up slowly. His eyes — full of something I’ve never seen. Pain. Regret. The kind that doesn’t fade.
He’s quiet for a long, long time. So long I think he’s going to run again. Like seven years ago.
“Cora. Baby. I didn’t cheat on your mother.”
His voice is wrecked. Sanded raw. Seven years of silence, all coming out at once.
I freeze. Stare him down.
“Don’t lie to me! That woman texted her! Mom saw it on her phone!”
He takes a shaky breath. His eyes go red.
“That night. The Whitmores were fighting for the waterfront lot in Brooklyn.”
“The rival crew wanted me out.”
“They spiked my drink. Something heavy.”
“That woman — she was theirs. Planted in my hotel room.”
“When I came to, the text was already sent.”
“Your mom already saw it.”
“I drove like a madman trying to reach her. But she’d already taken the car.”
“Into the storm.”
“She never came back.”
The tears finally break loose. Fat drops falling.
“After I buried your mom…”
“I went after them. All of them.”
“That rival. That woman. I got them myself.”
“Took my time. Made sure they knew why.”
“But it didn’t matter. It didn’t bring her back.”
“I got careless. I gave them the opening. That’s on me. That’s the one thing in this life I’ll never forgive myself for.”
“That’s why I swore. Never remarry. Never touch another woman.”
“Every day of my life, I’ve been trying to make it right.”
“But Cora…”
“You don’t have to forgive me. Hate me. Hate me till you die if you want.”
“But don’t cut yourself off from this family. Please.”
“Three years. I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”
“You have no idea how scared I was.”
I sit there. Frozen. My mind goes completely blank.
So that was the truth.
Not betrayal. A setup. A trap. And it cost my mother her life.
I look down at him. This man with white hair, kneeling on the floor, sobbing.
And three years of everything I’ve been holding down — the hurt, the shame, the loneliness, the rage — it all breaks loose at once.
I sob. Ugly. Loud. Uncontrollable.
“You know what my life has been like these three years?!”
“I hid from you! I used a fake name!”
“I made myself a slave to a piece of trash like Damon Sinclair!”
“I gave him Mom’s money to start his company! I cooked for him! I did his laundry!”
“And in the end? They threw me on the floor like garbage and cut open my face!”
“Daddy… it hurts. It hurts so much.”
He lunges forward.
Wraps me up in his arms. Holds me like he’s been waiting his whole life for it.
He cries like a child who lost the whole world.
“Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here, baby.”
“Anyone touches a single hair on your head from now on — I bury their whole family.”
“I don’t care if it’s God himself. Daddy will cut him down for you.”
I bury my face in his shoulder. Feel that warmth I haven’t felt in seven years.
For a long time, I don’t say anything.
Then I finally close my eyes. And I whisper. Hoarse.
“Daddy.”
He goes rigid. Tears pour down his face. He nods over and over.
“Yeah — yeah — Daddy’s here, baby. Daddy’s here…”
Two weeks later.
The bandages come off. A faint scar down my cheek. My fingers still can’t lift anything heavy, but they move.
I put on a black tailored suit. Pull my hair up tight and high.
I look in the mirror. Ice in her eyes. Kill on her face.
I turn. I walk to the door.
Outside, my dad is waiting. Dozens of men in black. Ready.
I curl my lip. Cold smile.
“Let’s go. Time to collect.”
“Everything Damon Sinclair owes me? He’s paying it back today. Every cent. Double.”