Make Me Moan, Daddy

Chapter 152: Chapter 152

REINA

Elisa didn’t stop moving.

The moment we cleared the doorway she had my wrist in a iron grip, pulling me down the corridor at a pace that was just short of running, her riding boots striking the marble floor in sharp, urgent rhythms. Her other hand was pressed flat against her collarbone, fingers curled tight, like she was physically holding herself together.

"I couldn’t get hold of Paolo," she said, the words tumbling out rapid and breathless. "I tried three times. Then I thought — fine. I’ll go to Reina’s. I’ve been sitting alone in that apartment for forty minutes. Forty minutes, Reina, do you know how long that is when there’s nothing to—"

"Elisa—"

"The doorman let me up because he recognizes me from before and I just thought I’d check if you were back yet, maybe we could order food and watch something, and then I heard you—" She stopped abruptly. Turned to look at me full in the face for the first time since we’d left the room. Her eyes moved over me — the torn neckline I was holding together with one fist, the tear tracks on my cheeks, the way I was shaking. Her jaw tightened. "How long?"

I couldn’t answer.

"Reina." Her voice dropped. Careful and precise. "How long has my father been forcing himself on you?"

The words landed with a horrible, clarifying weight. I opened my mouth and closed it again. My eyes drifted involuntarily back down the corridor toward the room we’d just left.

Domenico lay face down on the floor just inside the doorway.

The heavy glass perfume bottle — the one Elisa had grabbed from the vanity, the one I hadn’t even seen her swing — had done its damage. Dark blood was spreading from the point of impact at the back of his skull, pooling against the pale marble in a shape that looked almost deliberate. He wasn’t moving. His arms were slack at his sides. One shoe had come half off.

I couldn’t stop staring.

"Is he—" My voice didn’t work properly. "Elisa, is he—"

"Breathing," she said shortly, without looking back. "I checked before I grabbed you. Head wounds bleed dramatically. It looks worse than it is." A pause. "Probably."

The probably did nothing to help.

"We need to move." She started pulling me again. "He has a tracker chip. Embedded. Standard security protocol for men at his level — if his vitals spike or if there’s an extended period of inactivity his security team gets an automatic alert. We have maybe four, five minutes before someone comes to check."

"A tracker chip," I repeated blankly.

"In his shoulder. Has been there for years." She said it the way you discuss furniture — something long accepted, long lived with. "I know about it because I’m the one who sat with him in the hospital after they put it in and he complained for three weeks about the itch." Something flickered across her face. Gone quickly. "Come on. Stairs, not the elevator — the elevator has cameras that feed directly to—"

A sound from behind us.

We both froze.

It was quiet. Almost nothing. A low, dragging sound, like fabric against marble.

I turned.

Domenico was moving.

Not standing — not yet — but moving. One hand had found the doorframe. His head lifted slowly, and even from this distance I could see the blood tracking down the side of his face, dark against his skin. His expression was something I had no name for. Beyond anger. Beyond anything I recognized. fгeewebnovёl.com

"Oh God," I whispered.

He got one knee under himself. Then the other hand found the frame. He was pulling himself upright with the methodical, relentless focus of a man who did not acknowledge the concept of staying down. His eyes found us in the corridor.

"Elisa." His voice was rough. Damaged. But present.

She stepped in front of me.

"Don’t." Her voice was shaking now, the composure cracking at the seams. "Papa, don’t. Just let us go. Just this once, please, just let us—"

He was standing.

How he was standing I didn’t understand. The blow had been brutal. The blood was still coming. But he was upright, one hand braced against the frame, the other moving to his jacket with a terrible, practiced calm.

The gun.

I saw it the same moment Elisa did.

"Run," I breathed.

She grabbed my arm instead — wrong direction, toward him, not away, and I didn’t understand why until she shoved me hard to the left, into the alcove beside the corridor’s decorative column, putting the solid marble between us and him.

The shot was deafening in the enclosed space.

The sound hit me before I understood what had happened. A single crack that seemed to compress all the air in the corridor into something solid. Then Elisa made a sound — a small, awful sound, more surprise than pain — and I saw her grab her shoulder.

"Elisa!" I caught her before she could fall, both arms around her, pulling her back into the alcove. "Elisa, you’re shot, you’re—"

"I’m fine." Her voice was tight and airless. "It’s fine."

"You are not fine, you’ve been—"

"Reina." She grabbed my face with her good hand, fingers pressing into my cheeks, forcing me to look at her directly. Her eyes were bright with pain but absolutely, fiercely focused. "Listen to me. You need to run. That door at the end of the corridor — service exit, it bypasses the main lobby. Go."

"I’m not leaving you—"

"Go." The word came out raw and commanding, nothing left of the careful composure, just pure, urgent desperation. "I’ll be right behind you. I promise. But you need to move first, he can’t chase both of us and I can—"

A sound from Domenico’s direction. Not footsteps. Something worse.

A soft electronic tone. The sound of a phone screen being pressed.

Then his voice, rough and bleeding and absolutely controlled — more controlled than any injured man had a right to be.

"All units. Alert status." A pause. The sound of him moving. "Find Elisa. She does not leave this building." Another pause, shorter, colder. "Bring her back breathing, or don’t bring her back at all."

The words dropped into the corridor like stones into still water.

I felt Elisa go rigid against me.

Then an alarm — not subtle, not a quiet alert — a full, building-wide alarm, screaming through every speaker on every floor, flooding the corridors with pulsing red-tinted emergency light that turned everything lurid and strange.

"Go." Elisa pushed me hard toward the service door, her good arm strong despite everything. "Reina, go now."

I ran.

My heels left the floor and I ran, bag clutched against my chest, the alarm screaming around me, the red light strobing off the marble walls. I hit the service door with both palms and it gave, swinging into a concrete stairwell that smelled of cleaning fluid and cold air.

I took the stairs two at a time, not looking back, not stopping.

Behind me, somewhere above, I heard shouting. Footsteps, multiple, heavy and fast.

And somewhere in the distance — Elisa’s voice, sharp and furious, still fighting.

I kept running.

Down and down and down, through the red-lit dark, with Domenico’s words ringing in my ears and his child growing in my body and absolutely no idea what happened next — only that I could not stop. Could not slow down. Could not let the panic rising in my chest crest into something that would stop my legs from moving.

The ground floor door appeared. I hit it. Cold evening air rushed in.