Make Me Moan, Daddy-Chapter 17

REINA

The ice in my glass had melted into something cloudy and sad. It swirled around the cheap whiskey like dirty rainwater. I’d lost count of how many I’d had—three, maybe five—but I could still feel everything I was trying to forget.

This bar hadn’t changed. Same faint smell of citrus disinfectant and old beer. Same lazy ceiling fan groaning above our heads. Same wall clock ticking too loud, like it was mocking me for being here, for being this.

Across the street, I could see my aunt’s house from the open window. Curtains drawn. Her car parked outside as if to indicate she was home.

I’d been parked outside my aunt’s building two hours ago, for about twenty minutes I was sitting in my car, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, telling myself I’d go in. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t face her—not like this, not smelling like sin and shame, not with mascara streaked down my cheeks and my phone vibrating every two minutes with his name.

Domenico.

Paolo had stopped calling me, but as if father and son were in competition, Domenico started calling me right after. But as if to show he was more stubborn than his son, he never stopped calling. God, it had been over two hours and my father-in-law never stopped bombing my phone with his calls.

He’d been calling since morning. I hadn’t picked up once. I couldn’t. My stomach turned every time I saw his name flash across the screen. I wanted to throw the phone away, bury it under the sand, pretend none of this ever happened. But the calls kept coming, relentless. Like he could sense I was slipping away.

Even as I sat here in this bar, trying to drink my shame away, he still wouldn’t stop calling.

I could still remember everything that had happened. In fact, the scene from earlier just wouldn’t leave my head. I could still remember how I had walked the shame out of them. Both him and Calestino.

And thinking about Calestino, this bar wasn’t making it any better. It kept taking me back to the first time I met Calestino, he had walked in through the through the door of this bar, with Paolo next to him. Wounded.

"You sure you don’t want to pick that call?" Agnes asked, wiping down the counter beside me.

I forced a laugh that came out cracked. "No."

She glanced at my phone again, where Domenico was glowing like an accusation before the screen dimmed. "I’m surprised you’re here. I haven’t seen you since you got married. What even surprised me the most is that you’re drinking this early in the day."

I took another slow sip, the liquor burning down my throat. "I know, right?"

Her brow furrowed. "Is everything alright? Really?"

Always the worry type. If I had known Aunt Agnes would also be this worried about me, I would have just gone to another bar instead of this one. Sometimes she acted more like my Aunt than my actual Aunt.

I meant, there was a reason the two were best friends after all.

"Ugh." I groaned, rubbing my temple. The alcohol made everything feel blurry but too sharp at the same time—like my thoughts were glass shards swimming in syrup.

"And why has your father-in-law been calling you since morning?" she asked, voice casual but her eyes not. "Did something happen?"

I stared down at the drink. The amber liquid shimmered under the dim light like it was daring me to lie again. "Yeah, something did happen." I grumbled, sighing sadly. "But it’s alright. Please don’t worry about me, Aunt."

"How can I not worry," she said softly, "when you’re looking like you’re running for dear life? Are you sure you’re really okay?"

That broke something in me.

The laughter, the composure—all of it cracked like glass under heat. My voice trembled before I could stop it. "No! Everything is not okay. And I actually ran away from home."

Agnes froze mid-wipe. "Good Lord!" Her rag dropped to the floor. "What happened? Is it your husband? Is he abusive towards you? Do you need help with anything? I can help you arrange some street thugs to beat him up for you."

That startled a weak, miserable laugh out of me. "You’re so funny, Aunt Agnes." I shook my head, staring into the glass. "But no, that’s not it. It’s not my husband... I mean, he’s part of the reason I ran away from home, but God no! Paolo is not abusive towards me, and the problem is me. Not him." 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

Agnes sat down across from me now, her expression changing from concern to confusion. "What did you do? What’s going on, baby?"

I pressed my palms to my face. "I..." My voice cracked. I was just too ashamed to tell her what I had done. Aunt Agnes would hate me if she should know the truth. So I just shook my head. I would rather take this secret to my grave. "No! I can’t say it."

She sighed quietly, leaning back. "It’s okay. I’m not going to push. I’m only grateful that your husband hasn’t been abusing you unlike someone I know."

Her tone turned bitter on that last part, and when I looked up, I saw that familiar shadow pass through her eyes.

"Is Uncle Raphael still beating you?" I asked softly.

She gave a small, broken smile. "I hate to make excuses for him, but it’s my fault this time."

"Ugh!" I shook my head, frustration bubbling out of me. "That’s what you’ve been saying since I knew you. Always putting all the blame on yourself when the mad dog you got married to is the one at fault."

She chuckled under her breath. "No, really, Reina, that’s not it this time."

"I hear you," I said flatly, though we both knew I didn’t.

She sighed again, running her thumb along the edge of the counter. "I have been refusing him sex after my second miscarriage. And..." she hesitated, lowering her voice, "and I always give him a hard time whenever he masturbates."

I blinked, surprised by her bluntness. I never knew I would someday be sitting here, hearing about Aunt Agnes’ sex life.

"You’ve always wanted a baby," I murmured, my voice barely scraping past my throat. The words felt wrong in the air—too fragile for something so devastating. I hadn’t expected to hear she’d lost another pregnancy.

The first time, she’d lost it because her husband had beaten her so viciously she could barely stand, let alone walk. I still remembered the hospital room—the sterile smell of disinfectant, the purple bruises blooming across her skin like rot, the way she’d sworn she would leave him. I believed her. God, I wanted to believe her.

That was before I married Paolo. I thought she had finally escaped that madman for good—until my aunt told me she hadn’t. That she’d gone back to him.

So when I heard about this second pregnancy, I couldn’t stop wondering—what happened this time? Was it another fight? Another night of screams muffled behind closed doors? My stomach turned at the thought. I could almost feel bile clawing its way up my throat. If she lost another baby because of him—because he laid his filthy hands on her again—I swear I’d lose my mind.

Instead of asking, I just exhaled shakily, my chest tight. "I’m sorry you lost another one," I said gently.

It was all I could manage, though what I really wanted to say was tell me you’re safe. Tell me you didn’t let him do this to you again.

Her gaze softened, but it was tired—so tired. "We’ll make another one, anyway. Since we have sex a lot, it’s only a matter of time before I take in again."

I didn’t know what to say to that. I just stared at my glass, watching a droplet slide down the rim.

If Paolo and I had also have lots of sex, would I have never glance in his father’s direction? Would I have been satisfied with what we had?

Aunt Agnes stood up suddenly, breaking the silence. "I need to put the bar in order before more people starts coming in. I’ll be right back." She looked back at me and then at the table. She shook her head and grabbed my glass, together with the empty bottles of whiskey. "And no more drinks for you. You should stay at your aunt’s tonight. Don’t drive all the way back home... you’re drunk."

"Thanks, Aunt," I mumbled, not sure if she heard me.

When she disappeared into the storeroom, the silence swallowed me again. The sound of my phone vibrating on the counter made me flinch.

Domenico.

My vision swam. His name, his voice, the way his breath felt on my skin—it all came rushing back like poison in my veins. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, trying to steady myself.

I wanted to hate him. God, I wanted to hate him so badly. But how do you hate a man whose voice still echoes in your head when you’re trying to forget about his existence?

I took another shaky sip. "I’m sorry, Paolo," I whispered to no one, to everyone. My throat burned. "I’m so sorry. Please forgive me."

The bar felt colder suddenly. Or maybe it was just me.

Outside, the light had turned golden, or maybe it was all in my head. Cars passed slowly down the street, music bleeding faintly from one of them... something romantic and wrong.

I turned my phone face down, as if that would silence it forever.

But it buzzed again.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

I stared at it, at the faint cracks on the screen, at my reflection in the glass—red eyes, smudged lipstick, an empty woman wearing my face.

And then I saw it.

An unread message from Paolo.

It had been sent a little over two hours ago—right around the time I’d started ignoring his calls. My stomach twisted. Was that why he’d messaged me instead? Because he could tell I was avoiding him?

"Should I open it?" I whispered to myself, swallowing hard. My thumb hovered over the screen like it was a detonator.

My heart slammed against my ribcage, so loud I could almost hear it. I didn’t want to see what was inside. I was terrified—terrified of words that could change everything, of truths I wasn’t ready to face. But how long could I keep running? I couldn’t avoid him forever.

"If he already knows," I muttered bitterly, "then what’s the point?"

My thumb pressed down before I could stop myself. The message opened... and my world stopped breathing.

Fuck.

My pulse froze. My fingers went numb. I read the first line, and everything inside me went cold. Guilt eating deep at my inside.

Fuck you, Reina!