"Mom, how come I don't look like either you or Daddy?"

Anna Bradley laid down her wooden spoon and took a deep breath. She had been dreading this question ever since the day she had brought her adopted daughter home from the airport, where the Social Services from Italy had brought little Angelina, then two weeks old, to America to hand her over to her adoptive parents.

Anna turned to smile at her daughter. At fourteen, Angie was beautiful. Tall and slender, with waist-length silky jet-black hair and dark eyes, a contrast to her smooth flawless porcelain skin.

Angie stood there, patiently awaiting her mother's answer.

Anna pulled out a chair and sank into it, then gestured for Angie to do the same.

"Angie, Daddy and I adopted you when you were just a baby. Your mother couldn't afford to keep you, and her father forbade her to. Having a baby out of wedlock brought shame to the family. So she gave you up."

Angie looked thunderstruck. "Angelina Bradley isn't my real name?" She choked.

Anna laid a hand on top of her daughter's. "We decided to keep the name Angelina, the name your mother picked when you were born. We gave you the middle name Renee."

Angelina said slowly, "Where am I from?"

"Florence, Italy."

"Thank you for telling me, Mom." Angelina got up and went to her room.

So this explains the funny feelings I get between my legs every time I see Daddy, Angelina thought. It's because he's not my real father.

That night, Angelina was sprawled out on her bed, wearing nothing but her bathrobe and a silky pink nightgown, reading a book. Her hair was drawn into a smooth knot at the back of her head.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" Angelina hollered.

James, her father, stepped inside. "Hey, angel. Your mother told me that you asked about your adoption today."

"Why didn't you ever tell me I was adopted?"

James sat down on Angelina's bed. "Well, angel, we just figured it was better for you if you didn't know."

"Who were my parents? Do you know?"

James sighed. "I traveled to Italy to meet your parents. Your mother was seventeen. A beautiful young girl, named Bianca de Lucini. She was engaged to the son of a Mafia don."

Angelina gasped. "The Mafia?"

James nodded. "She had a liaison with the son of a rival Mafia don, and became pregnant with you. You didn't need to live that kind of life, so it was best you were gave up."

Angelina drew her knees up to her chest, and in doing so, her robe fell open, exposing the skimpy little nightgown, which did barely nothing to cover her developing tits and slender, smooth thighs.

James swallowed hard as the sight of his daughter's body caused his cock to stir.

"Okay, well, angel, I'll just go on to bed now. See you in the morning." He got up to leave.

"Wait, Daddy. I need to ask you a question. Sometimes when I'm around you, I get all wet between my legs. Why do I do that?"

Oh God, James thought. His cock was hardening more at the thought of his daughter's cunt being wet because of him.

"Honey, you see, you're growing up, and when a girl gets to a certain age, certain men make her do that. It means she's horny," James finished lamely, for lack of a better word.

Angelina considered this. "Do guys do it, too?"

James shifted uneasily. "Well, honey, they do it a different way. Instead of getting wet, their men parts get hard."

Angelina smiled. "And are your man parts hard, Daddy?"

James swallowed convulsively. "Yes, honey, Daddy's man parts are hard."

"Can I see?"

"No, Angelina, you can't!" James shouted angrily.

"Why not, Daddy? You're not my real daddy, anyways, so why does it matter if I see it?"

"God help me, for I can't help myself," James muttered, and unfastened his slacks and reached in his boxers to free his cock.