When the Italian máfia boss you're being forced to marry by arrangement demands you call him Daddy... You shake your head. "He told me nothing. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he drugged me and put me on a plane to Boston with no other information than that I will marry Milo Mazzeo." An evil glint ignites in his eyes. "Your father is more ruthless than I could have imagined." He sounds unnervingly happy about it. "That's cold-hearted. Especially since this wedding date has been secured for two months now." Two months? You drop your spoon and stare at him in shock. "Are you joking?' Milo looks at you with disinterest. "Don't take your frustration out on me. I wasn't the one who didn't tell you for two months." He shrugs. "I thought it a little odd that your father didn't bring you to meet me sooner." "You're both as terrible as each other," you murmur. He narrows his eyes. "You know nothing about me." You laugh at that. "Everyone knows about you, Milo." He grits his teeth, eyes blazing with rage. "Don't call me Milo," he says. You raise a brow. "It's your name. You can't expect me to call you sir all the time." He stands from his chair, making you jump. He grabs your hair roughly, yanking your neck right back. His ice-blue eyes are so cold. "You'll call me two names only, depending on where we are." He laces every word with threat. "When we're around others, you'll call me sir. Let me hear you say it." You glare at him, keeping your mouth shut. Milo grabs your throat with his other hand, squeezing so hard you can barely breathe. "Let me hear you say it," he drawls. Your pride is on the line, but as it feels like he might choke the life out of you. "Sir." He releases your throat and nods. "Good. Next time, don't hesitate." He keeps his hand tight around your hair. "Whenever we're alone, I want you to call me Daddy." You swallow hard, an odd sensation pulsing to life between your thighs. "Let me hear you say it, princess," he purrs in a deep tone