Page 3 of Daddy’s Favorite Girl

The doors of the elevator opened, and his large arm moved, gesturing for me to exit first. It surprised me when he followed me to the door.

“You gonna like workin’ here, Yara Fairchild,” he said just as I opened the front door.

I whipped around. “How do you know I’m going to work here?”

“I know everything.”

His eyes bore into mine, and it felt like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t, so I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Gino.”

My brow rose playfully. “Last name?” I asked, playing his game.

“Grant.” Something shifted in his gaze as my already aching stomach dropped.

“Grant. You’re her husband . . .” I concluded before I allowed my words to trail off.

He nodded, and I tilted my head at the look in his eyes. I wondered how he knew which her I referred to. I had so many questions, including the emotions playing on his face. Was that resentment? Hatred? Something negative filtered through his features before he focused back on me intently.

His jaw clenched before he said, “I’ll see you next Wednesday, beautiful.”

With that, he turned and walked back toward the elevator. Outside, my brows pulled together as I allowed the plethora of emotions to wash over me. As much as I wanted to focus on the fact that I got a job, my mind kept landing on the mystery man I just met. No, not a mystery man, because he was most definitely my new boss’s husband.

Chapter One

GINO

One year later . . .

I had a theory that there were worse things I could do to my wife than love another woman and plot on her demise, . . . but I’ll let you be the judge of that.

Me and my right-hand man walked into the DA’s office like we owned that mothafucka. We didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. We funded the DA’s lavish lifestyle, which meant we owned him.

Without knocking, I walked into his office.

Kyle Knight sat behind his desk looking over some papers. Our sudden entrance seemed to scare his fraidy-cat ass. I didn’t understand how he could be a DA and afraid of his own damn shadow. I could understand how he could be afraid of me, though. Everyone was.

“Mr. Grant, I wasn’t expecting you. P-please . . . have a seat.” He gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk.

I looked at the chairs and then back at him while Turbo, my right-hand man, flopped down into one of seats.

“No.”

The DA’s brows rose. “No?”

“I don’t like those chairs.”

“You . . . don’t like them?”

Turbo chuckled. “Here this nigga go.”

“Nah. Stand up,” I told the DA.

He looked confused, which made me confused. The demand was simple.

“Stand up?”

Since he didn’t seem to understand the concept of standing up, I walked over to him and rolled his leather chair away from his desk and then grabbed the front of his blue button-up and lifted him off the ground. Not even caring if he landed on his feet, I dropped him and sat down in his chair.