Page 33 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

“I’ve moved back in with my mother! I don’t even have a room in Mortlake anymore.”

I’m failing to hear anything in that which prevents her coming with me right now to my house, and staying.

“None of this makes any sense! It’s been three months. And why did you leave after we…?” She glances around. It’s a quiet cul-de-sac, but probably curtains are twitching everywhere.

I can’t describe the numerous reasons for that mistake, except that they boil down to,I fucked up and I’m not going to allow it to happen again now I’ve found you. She’s staying with me, whether she likes her daily multiple orgasms, baby, luxurious house, and a limitless credit card, or not.

So I don’t say anything. I use my larger body and greater strength to push her into the car.

“No!” She holds firm. Ish. “You have to talk to me, Markov.”

I grit my teeth, and continue with plan A.

“I need you tocommunicate.” But she grips the lapels of my suit jacket, gazing up with those big brown eyes. Not trying to get away, but pleading with me instead. And she says the one word that is designed to undo me when it’s from her lips.

“Please.”

12

EMILY

I think for a second he’ll ignore me. His eyes go dark.

But the kingpin who never voluntarily says anything to anyone, swallows hard, then sets his jaw, stepping backwards, although not releasing my hand, that he captured in his as he tried to force me into his sleek black SUV. He takes a breath, like he’s bracing himself, and apprehension surges in me again, even though a moment ago he was on his knees before me.

He planned to have a baby? That’s insane. It was spontaneous, what happened between us, wasn’t it?

“At least tell me what you’re planning,” I say.

“You’re coming home with me. To live. Permanently.” He says this with a determined expression that in no way concedes how bat-shit-crazy it is. “What do you need to do that?”

My heart drops. Because the truthful answer here is that this is impossible.

“Oh, pack a bag, change my address, and convince my mother,” I say lightly.

I’m in Markov’s car two hours later, my head spinning, but also the most at peace I’ve been for years.

I’ve never seen anyone deal with my mother like that.

The more she blustered and demanded, the calmer and clearer he became. She has a new rescue puppy because she said she’d be lonely without me, a local pottery class booked, a daily cleaner coming in, and a food delivery service. All paid for and arranged by Markov. I have said that I’ll call my mother once a week, and she has promised to only call in an emergency. I’ll visit at Christmas, in the summer, and on her birthday.

She still hasn’t noticed my pregnancy, and didn’t even ask about Markov’s age. How he managed all this with only short questions, like “What do you want?” and mainly nods or shakes of his head, god only knows.

His men back at Mortlake arranged everything from just a few taps on his phone. What Markov Lunacharski wants, he gets. He doesn’t require words.

I’m scared, thrilled, and wary in equal measure.

The familiar gloom of my hometown turns into fields as we drive towards London. This whole thing feels insane. Absurd.

“How did you find me?” I ask eventually, when it’s clear Markov isn’t going to offer conversation. I guess the counterpoint to that question is, why didn’t he come for me sooner, if he really cared? It’s been three months.

A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he dips his head, glaring at the road as though it hurt him. He’s driving with single-minded determination.

I sigh. “Markov, this isn’t going to work if?—”

“There are a lot of Emily Smiths.”

“You what…?” But then I think of my job interview and the lack of paperwork for my employment. “You only had my name to go by?”