Page 21 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

No. I push the thoughts away, devious little bastards, getting in my head.

I’m terrible with people in general, but not with her. Not Emily. But my blood is already going cold and congealed.

Mortlake has always worked with secrecy and anonymity. Methods that I respect, and didn’t mess with too much when I took over. I might be violent, but I don’t break systems that work, and the distribution network based on anonymity functioned for decades.

So as I log into Emily’s computer, I know what I’ll find.

Nothing. There won’t be detailed information about Emily, because that’s not how the previous Kingpin of Mortlake did things.

I open the HR file, and there she is. Emily Smith. Archives Administrative Assistant. There’s her salary, and a note thatDenis Petrov is her manager, but other than that, it’s blank like all the files are. Not even a date of birth. Nothing that I didn’t already know, because I followed her home after our second meeting.

I will find her.

I hold onto that belief, as I yank the plug out of the computer to turn it off then exit the office and almost run to my car.

It’s still early in the morning, before rush hour in London and the sky is lightening from charcoal to pigeon grey.

I pay about as much attention to red lights and “two plus” lanes as I usually do—that is to say, none—but I also ignore speed limits, other cars, and pedestrians. No one dies as I make it to Emily’s address in half the time the map app stated, but not because of my actions. I only care about getting to Emily.

She lives in a scruffy Victorian house with three floors. After I shoot the lock to gain entry to the building, and several people scream from inside, I reflect that I probably should have knocked. It’s still only about seven-thirty.

I give a moment’s thought on how best to do this, then bellow, “Emily!”

There’s no response except for shrieks of fear. I barge in through the first door, and find a lounge. Then a kitchen, where a terrified girl in pyjamas is flat against the worn cabinets, shaking.

“Emily,” I say more quietly.

“I don’t know!” the girl stammers.

“Emily,” I repeat, louder and with my gun pointed at her. This is honestly more effective than words in my experience. Most people talk too much. Please, thank you, could you tell me where the... all fucking pointless. A waste of breath.

Except Emily. I could listen to her all day.

“I don’t know where Emily is! She usually leaves for work early!”

I nod in agreement. Yes. That makes sense.

I’m encouraging. So is my gun. Very supportive to her telling me everything without delay.

“I think Josh was here yesterday,” she babbles. “And he knows what goes on because he’s on the same floor as her. She’s room two. He’s room one.”

Anger flashes through me. ThisJoshlives right next door to her? What the fuck?

I spin and my vision is a tunnel surrounded by red as I storm upstairs until I get to a door with a peeling number “one” stuck to it.

Before I shoot it open, sanity prevails. I grab the handle and, wow these people are trusting, the door opens.

The room is small, and from a double bed, a young guy gets that glazed look of a person who is faced with me holding a firearm, and hasn’t dealt with this type of situation before.

He looks like he might piss himself. “Look man, I didn’t?—”

“Emily,” I say again.

He backs away across the bed, as though the duvet and two feet will make any difference if I decide to kill him.

“She moved out yesterday,” he says, and I’m impressed by how he manages to get out a whole sentence, despite being ready to throw himself from the window.

He didn’t do anything to Emily. He can barely dress himself.