Page 24 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard your voice, Mortlake. Always imagined you had a Russian accent you were embarrassed about,” Rotherhithe comments casually, regarding Emily’s name with a head tilt.

I glare. This is totally irrelevant, and only goes to show why I don’t do conversation. I point at Emily’s name meaningfully.

“We’ll try to find her if you can find more words like ‘please’, and an explanation of why we should locate Emily Smith.” Richmond grins.

I hate her name in his mouth.

“Is Russian tendency to leave off words,” Mayfair says, hamming up his Russian accent, his voice full of amusement. “No please.”

“Emily Smith,” I repeat, tired of their shit-talk. If they aren’t going to help. I’ll... Well. That’s the problem. I have a lot of money and resources, but this isn’t the sort of thing Mortlake is good at.

These bloody idiots are my best bet.

Every instinct in me says to either shut up, or leave, or both, as they regard me with a range of wary interest and amused curiosity.

“I have to find her,” I say, slowly and deliberately, my heart racing.

For fuck’s sake. I can kill men without my pulse going above sixty beats per minute, but since Emily arrived in my life, I’ve had to do all sorts of things that are as comfortable as a coat made of hedgehogs.

But if I get her back more quickly, it will be worth it.

“It’s so weird to hear him speak—” Rotherhithe marvels.

I smash my fist onto the nearest table, making a bang so loud that several people duck and Mayfair’s wife squeaks and burrows into his arms and he pulls her close.

“Alright.” Mayfair strokes Lina’s shoulder and looks again at the scrap of paper. “It’s a common name, Smith. Who is she?”

I genuinely have no idea what the right answer is.

My employee? The much younger girl I fucked raw yesterday on her desk? The centre of my universe and every hope for joy I have in this world or any other? The woman I’ve fallen in love with, had my first time with, and who understands me like no one else.

Or so I thought. Until she ran off without saying anything.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. I growl the only thing I can think of to explain. “Need her.”

And thank god, they all seem to accept this. Perhaps it’s the benefit of being married? Mayfair glances down at his wife with affection.

I turn away. I don’t want to see anyone being cute and in love when I’m torn apart.

“Do you have a photo of her? Or a date of birth?” Richmond asks.

I shake my head and grit my teeth. I have nothing. Just an address with an empty room, a corpse in the office where I lost my virginity, and a gap in my heart the size of a London bus.

“Who do we have who could help with this?” Mayfair muses aloud.

“King’s Cross will check if she left the city to the north, and he might persuade Euston and Paddington to go through their transport surveillance,” Richmond says, head tipped to the side.

I’m nodding along, because yes, this is good. My chest doesn’t loosen, but the knots go from titanium cords to steel.

“But if she’s still within London, or she went another direction, maybe south? We won’t be able to track her. And what if she used cash to buy a ticket?” Richmond continues.

“There might be dozens of Emily Smiths just in London,” Mayfair says, stroking his jaw thoughtfully.

“There were three Emilys in my class at school,” Lina pipes up. “It’s a really popular name for girls my age.”

“Hundreds on that video app my wife likes,” says Rotherhithe, setting his phone down with pinched eyebrows.

“You have it on your phone?” Richmond says with faint derision.