Make Me Beg, Daddy

Chapter 33

“Eat your food, Nik. I’m done with this conversation.”

He eyes me with more questions on the tip of his tongue. But in the end, he makes the smartest choice he’s ever made:

He picks up his plate and steps out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Not alone for long, though.

Because, a few minutes later, Anton comes to the dining room door.

“There’s a woman at the front for you, sir.”

I look up.

“She says her name is Delilah Dorsey, and that she has an answer to your offer.”

I get to my feet, set the bottle down, and stride toward my office.

“Send her in,” I tell my soldier. “I’ll be waiting.”

CALL DETAIL RECORD — INBOUND

LINE: (718) 536-XXXX [redacted] — V HAVEN HOLDINGS, LLC (listed)

ORIGINATING NUMBER: (917) 206-2064 — DORSEY, D. (mobile)

DATE: THU 31 DEC 2026

CONNECT: 12:49:02 EST

DISCONNECT: 12:51:23 EST

DURATION: 00:02:21

ORIGIN_GPS (approx.): 40.6446° N, 74.0102° W — 4412 4TH AVE, BROOKLYN NY 11220

RECORDING: AUTO (inbound line, all calls)

TRANSCRIPT: partial, verbatim. Unidentified male designated M1.

12:49:02 — M1: Yeah.

12:49:03 — D. DORSEY: Hi. It’s Lilah. I mean, uh… Delilah Dorsey. I think we spoke before?

12:49:09 — M1: [pause, 8 sec] I know who you are, Ms. Dorsey.

12:49:20 — D. DORSEY: Okay. Great. That saves us both some time.

12:49:24 — M1: [pause, 6 sec]

12:49:30 — D. DORSEY: … Hello?

12:49:31 — M1: [inaudible, approx. 2 sec] Write this down: [address redacted per instruction — W. 7-- ST, MANHATTAN, NY 100--].

12:49:39 — D. DORSEY: I’m sorry?

12:49:40 — M1: I’ve been instructed to provide you with that information, ma’am. I was told to offer a car service, and that you’d likely refuse.

12:49:49 — D. DORSEY: That’s… I’m… You’re damn right I’m refusing. I’ve got a MetroCard and it works perfectly fine.

12:49:57 — M1: That’s what I was told, ma’am.

12:50:00 — D. DORSEY: Jesus. You’re all just like him, aren’t you? He’s got a million little clones answering his phones.

12:50:07 — M1: Pardon, ma’am?

12:50:09 — D. DORSEY: Oh, God. Nothing. Forget I said a word.

12:50:12 — M1: [pause, 4 sec] Somebody’ll be there.

12:50:18 — D. DORSEY: What time?

12:50:19 — M1: I wasn’t provided with that information, ma’am.

12:50:22 — D. DORSEY: Am I supposed to bring anything? Do you need, like… I don’t know, proof of citizenship? My ID? A live chicken for some kind of pagan sacrifice ritual?

12:50:34 — M1: [inaudible — possible laugh] I wasn’t provided with that information, ma’am.

12:50:38 — D. DORSEY: Of course you weren’t. This is all the craziest s**t I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe I’m— You know what? Never mind. What’s your name?

12:50:48 — M1: I wasn’t instructed to provide you with that information, ma’am.

12:50:52 — D. DORSEY: Okay. “Mr. Uninstructed” it is. I’d say it’s been nice talking to you, but I’ve had better conversations with brick walls. Happy New Year.

12:51:01 — M1: Ms. Dorsey.

12:51:02 — D. DORSEY: Yeah?

12:51:03 — M1: I’ve been instructed to request that you wear a coat. It’s twenty degrees outside, and Mr. Makov would hate for you to be cold. [20°F recorded at KJFK 12:51].

12:51:12 — D. DORSEY: [pause, 5 sec] … What is wrong with you people?

12:51:20 — M1: We’ll see you soon, ma’am.

12:51:23 — [CALL TERMINATED BY ORIGINATING PARTY]

Then come the trains.

The R to Thirty-Sixth.

The D to Columbus Circle.

The 1 uptown.

A walk of two and a half blocks in wind coming off the river hard enough to make my eyes sting and, yes, make me grateful for Kane’s passed-along reminder to wear a warm coat.

The sight of a pretentious woman reprimanding a doorman for accidentally spraying her sweater-clad Chihuahua with his salt spreader reminds me of Vivian and her stupid little rodent of a dog.

I shiver and keep walking.

Predictably, Kane’s block contains one brownstone after the next. An endless row of black railings and window boxes with dead cedar in them. His is on the north side. When I approach, there’s a man in a black jacket standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands folded in front of him.

I stop in front of him. “I’m⁠—”

“Ms. Dorsey,” he says. He bows and steps aside.

In theory, it’s very polite.

In reality, it feels less like being welcomed by an expectant host and more like being processed through the gates of hell.

The door opens before I get to it. The man in the doorway is older and severe-looking, with gray at the temples. He’s wearing a black shirt buttoned to the collar and starched to within an inch of its life.

“May I take your coat, Ms. Dorsey?”

Wordlessly, I hand it over. He pivots on his heel and hangs it in a coat closet that’s bigger than my entire bakery.

The inside of the house makes me feel enormous and grubby. Dark wood paneling on the walls, cold light through the high, thin windows. The floors are so shiny that I can see my chins from below. I decide to keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead.

There’s a staircase with a runner held down by iron rods, and a hallway with a closed door on the left and a smell of roast pork drifting up. Two more men are standing at the far end of the hall looking intently at the opposite wall. Neither of them says a word to me as I go past.

“He’s in the office,” the man who answered the door says.

When we reach a thick black door at the end of a long corridor, he knocks twice, turns the knob, and then steps aside for me to push through myself.

With a deep swallow, I enter.

Kane is behind a desk looking like Lucifer himself. Black shirt, sleeves rolled. Inked forearms, veiny and strong. Rings glinting.

Thick books and strange-looking nautical instruments made of brass line the shelves behind him. A window looks out on a courtyard garden filled with snow and chunky sculptures.

He doesn’t get up. He just looks at me, and I get that feeling I got in the pantry, of being added up, dissected, X-rayed, exposed.

My hands go straight into the pockets of my cardigan and I cross one leg in front of the other automatically. An old habit, like I think I can hide myself if I squeeze all my limbs close enough together.

“Lilah,” Kane breathes. “Welcome.”

“Quite the hospitality squad you’ve got out there,” I say, with a jerk of my chin toward the rest of the house.

Kane frowns. “Was someone rude to you?”

“No, no,” I hurry to say, feeling guilty for even accidentally getting someone in trouble. “They were fine, just… distant. Don’t, like, cut off their pinkies as punishment or anything.”

He relaxes. “As long as they were not disrespectful.”

“Nothing like that, I promise.” I fidget in place as I look around at the rest of the office. One side is all glass, framed with black steel, showcasing nothing but a wall of rough-hewn black concrete on the far side. “You have a lot of guys standing around your house not doing anything, though. Isn’t that expensive?”

He chuckles. “They’re doing plenty.”

“Are you preparing to be invaded or something? Are you, like, New York’s answer to Attila the Hun?”

“Someone is in a quippy mood this afternoon,” he remarks. He tips his head at the chair on my side of the desk. “Sit.”

“I’d rather not.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s not a defiant thing,” I explain. “I’ve been on my feet since four, so if I sit down in a nice chair, I might not get back up.”

He looks at me strangely. Then he shoves his chair back and stands.

“What are you doing?” I ask in alarm.

Instead of answering, he storms around the desk and comes charging up to me, eating up the ground between us in his huge strides. I’d probably have run if my feet were a little more responsive, but since I fall more on the Bambi end of the fight-or-flight-or-freeze spectrum, all I do is stand in place.

He stops one step away and holds out his hand, palm up.

I stare at it and don’t move.

“Give me your hand, Lilah. I won’t hurt you.”

I do it. Couldn’t tell you why. His fingers close around mine and his other hand settles at my elbow. He guides me around and lowers me into the chair like I’m a precious little china doll. Slow. Careful. He waits until I’m all the way down before he lets go.

The skin-to-skin contact is electric. Rings cold against my knuckles, his palm hot.

But that’s not the part that gets me.

The part that gets me is the rest of it. Men don’t hold chairs for me. Men don’t put a hand under my elbow. Not since I was a kid, and even then it was only my dad who ever cared enough to bother.

“Better?” he says.

“I… think so? Sure. Let’s just go with yes.”

“Good.” He nods, then retreats back to his side of the desk. It’s only once he’s seated, too, that I can breathe again.

“So,” he says. “How are you?”

I blink at him. “What?”

“Kak ty?”

“I’m lost.”

“Comment ça va? Wie geht es dir? Tudo bem? Nǐ hǎo ma?”

“Are you having a stroke?”