Page 23 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

This fucking idiot hasreplacedEmily? There’s liquid nitrogen in my veins, and it must show on my face, because he continues.

“She didn’t complete the work I set for her yesterday, and I had the new girl lined up, so I sacked her. I know you value efficiency.”

He doesn’t know anything about me. I value logic. I’ve watched Emily work, she’s dedicated. But even if she wasn’t, Ican see what the real issue is here. Emily wouldn’t sleep with this prick, and so he sacked her.

“It won’t cost Mortlake,” he adds, and I swear he’s fucking pleased with himself. “She was on the usual cash-only terms. She hasn’t got any recourse.”

I don’t even bother to remove my suit jacket. I’m across the room, and my fist is in his face.

His nose breaks first, and the second punch cracks satisfyingly, probably fracturing his jaw.

He splutters from where he’s fallen back into his seat, and I grab him by the lapels to drag him to his feet again, so I can slam my fist into his gut this time. He tries to ward me off, but there’s no way to avoid the blows that strike him hard and fast.

I beat him to a bloody pulp. Far beyond the point that he’s unconscious, and my knuckles are bruised and scraped. Red flecks my white shirt.

This piece of shit is the reason Emily isn’t here, sacked because my girl wouldn’t put out for him.

I step back, breathing heavily. My fists sting. There’s moisture on my cheeks.

Emily is gone. I have no other contact details for her.

My stomach roils with fresh anger. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve pulled the gun from my waist, cocked the safety and squeezed the trigger. The sound reverberates around and there are frightened shouts from neighbouring offices.

Denis’ head splatters over the floor.

I clench my teeth. It’s been years since I’ve lost control like that, with my fists rather than a calculated shot. Not since I was a kid.

I should feel regret, or glee, or something. Possibly irritation that he could have known more about Emily’s whereabouts, and I’ve killed him.

But I don’t.

He deserved that. He didn’t know anything about her, because he didn’t care. He saw her as interchangeable with another girl he was employing. A younger girl.

I make a mental note to check up on that later. And in future, every fucking person employed by Mortlake will be official, and give all their contact details. I don’t care how much fucking tax it costs us.

But for now, I have to have Emily back in my life. And it’s a measure of how desperate I am that I’m going to ask for help.

From the London Maths Club.

7

MARKOV

“Find her.”

The London Mafia Syndicate who managed to get to the hotel in Lambeth we use for meetings all appear stunned for a second, as they stare at the paper with Emily’s name on it that I’ve slapped onto the old brown wood table, or me.

“He can speak.” The Bratva Pakhan of Rotherhithe looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“Shit, was that a full sentence from you, Mortlake?” Artem, the Bratva boss of Mayfair says, shaking his head.

“There’s a verb, and an object? That counts,” his wife, Lina, replies.

“Genuinely thought he was mute.” Richmond’s Italian undertones come through with his surprise, and I turn and curl my lip at him. We’ve been friends and neighbours for a while, but yeah. I don’t think I’ve really spoken to him, as such. “No offence meant.” He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Yes or no is a full sentence, though?” Mayfair adds, and he and his wife digress into a conversation about fucking grammar, as if that matters.

I rub my chest, and fuck, I can’t bear this. I just need Emily back.