Page 27 of Abducted By the Mafia Don
Lily raises her eyebrows and tuts. “Not book boyfriend material.”
“Her bookhusband,” I growl, and draw Taggie back to me.
The noise in my head and the thudding of my heart immediately quiets. She’s a drug, and I’m willingly addicted. Taggie sinks into my side, wrapping an arm around me, and my inner monster calms.
“Too right,” Lily agrees with a grin to Taggie. “The idea is a cross between a charity auction and a blind date with a book. Various donors—some requiring more persuasion than others—have agreed to give books from their collection for free to be auctioned in aid of our chosen charities. And the twist is, they describe the book, but you don’t see exactly what it is until you’ve bought it. Surprise!”
“Oh my god that’s awesome!” Taggie squeals.
Lily hands us both a program. “Don’t miss Lambeth’s book.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say dryly.
The event turns out to be a whole dinner and after dinner thing, and it takes us a moment to find our table.
I drape my arm over the back of Taggie’s chair and listen indulgently as she reads the auction list from cover to cover. The listings are all the most influential of the London Mafia Syndicate, and Taggie shows what a perfect mafia wife she will be—would be—by effortlessly recalling all their names and territories as well as details about the wives she’s met. Around us, the room fills up.
We’re joined by Mayfair, Lambeth, and one of theBlackwood triplets, and their wives. No children, but there are some on other tables. I don’t look that way, not just because I’d rather watch Taggie, but because it gives me an ache in my chest that, while it’s been present since my family died, it’s definitely worse since I met Taggie.
Champagne cocktails are served as an aperitif and Taggie takes a glass with adorable excitement. Her eyes sparkle, as she tries it and finds it sweet and bubbly and decadent. But when Blackwood’s wife selects the sparkling flowery soft drink instead, Taggie notices immediately.
“I’m pregnant,” explains Ella Blackwood with a rueful laugh. “Inevitable really.”
People congratulate her, and joke about babies, and when Taggie glances up at me, my stomach swoops. Her expression reflects the longing I’ve tried to repress: to have a family to love and care for.
I have a flash that she can see my hidden desires. It’s like she sees past every barrier I have. Then she looks away, blushing, and I know it was an illusion.
Yes, she’s the only one who knows about my revenge plot, and how it hurt me to lose my parents and siblings. Not even the members of the London Mafia Syndicate, who helped me when Richmond became my responsibility, know that. But she thinks I’m helping her out of kindness, and she believes she can leave anytime.
“Anyway, enough baby talk. Who’s bidding on the signed special edition of Blythe’s?” says Ella.
“Not bidding, but I was curious,” Taggie replies. “Who do you think the author is?”
Then they’re off, trying alternately to get out of the book donors what the book is, speculating from the description, and wondering how much they’ll go for.
As we eat dinner, I listen. Taggie is passionate aboutbooks with sprayed edges, whatever that means. It turns out there’s more to this evening than my stated aim of showing off our relationship and my covert aim of touching Taggie when she’s conscious and pretending that she loves me. Because winning auctions for my wife is totally within my skill set.
When dinner is over, Lily and Willow introduce the auction, and Westminster takes the stage and talks about how important these charities are. I play with Taggie’s hand as Westminster drones on that although London’s taxes pay for lots of the needs of London’s most vulnerable, and each mafia does its part, there remain people who slip through the gaps.
“Is he really lecturing mafia bosses on taxation?” The kingpin of Rotherhithe leans over from the neighbouring table and asks in a stage whisper, his Russian lilt stronger in his irritation.
“Do you pay any taxes?” Lambeth replies in the same tone.
“No.” Well. I do. A bit.
“I think there was a tax I paid once,” Rotherhithe says thoughtfully.
“No, that was a taxidermist,” Mayfair says deadpan. “Terrifying, that stuffed wolf. The Bratva kids seem to have taken it as their mascot and pretend to ride it.”
I glance at Taggie, and her lips twitch with mirth, though she’s looking straight ahead and seemingly listening to Westminster, who is still talking.
Lambeth nods. “Easily confused.”
“Yes, you are,” Rotherhithe grumbles, but smirks. “Who’s afraid of the big Bratva wolf, Mayfair.”
“Enough of that,” one of the women from the audience yells. “Time for books, Westminster.”
There’s a collective intake of breath as Westminster’s hand twitches as though going for a gun. But he instead pulls out a credit card, and grins. “My beautiful wife is correct, as ever. Gentlemen, we’ll be needing these…”