Page 42 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

We pull up outside a very fancy row of houses within London, all with discreet white and gold signage. Markov helps me out of the car, as though I’m ancient and breakable, not just pregnant.

Inside, we’re immediately shown to the doctor. Apparently, that’s what happens when you’re with a deadly mafia boss. No sitting in the waiting room like a normal person, even if it’s a swanky private clinic.

The doctor is so nice. She asks me a bunch of questions, seemingly unafraid of the towering, silent man at my side. She takes my blood pressure, and a blood test, and calculates my due date, which makes this seem real.

I know what month this child’s birthday will be in, and it shakes me. I’m going to be a mother.

Markov doesn’t speak at all.

“You’re in perfect health, nothing to worry about.” The doctor smiles at me.

If only that second bit were true.

“Would you like an ultrasound? We do recommend it at this stage,” she adds.

My smile must answer for me, as the doctor laughs and sends us through to another room.

When I’m ready, and we’re waiting for the ultrasound specialist, I lean over to him. He seems so uncomfortable. “Are you sure you want to stay for this?”

He frowns. “Where you go, I go.”

“I’m not a puppy. I can?—”

“I’m your shadow,” he says, low and sincere.

“Awfully solid for a shadow,” I tease.

His eyes go dark, and his expression goes calculating. Then he reaches out and takes my hand in his. Warm and certain.

“You want to see…” The baby? Your baby?Ourbaby, he called it yesterday, which made me all squirmy inside.

He nods.

Then the ultrasound specialist bustles in, a middle-aged woman with a seen-it-all but friendly vibe. Then the little scanner thing has clear lubricant on it that’s chilly against my skin and she apologises, but then the soft sound of a heartbeat is in the room, and white shadows on the screen, and I forget everything else.

I’m entranced. That will grow into our baby.

She takes measurements, and talks about development, and tells me things in a reassuring voice.

When I glance at Markov, his gaze is glued to the image, too.

“It’s a little early to be certain about the gender,” the ultrasound specialist says. “Are you hoping for one or the other?”

“I don’t know.” We hadn’t discussed this, and it’s all sudden. One minute I was hiding my bump with floaty clothes in front of my mother and thinking about how to be a solo parent, the next Markov has taken over everything.

I suppose Markov wants a boy, so he can take over as kingpin of Mortlake?

“Do you want a boy or a girl?” I ask Markov, a bit shy as I look over to him.

“I want an alien,” Markov says, eyes fixed on the black and white image.

The ultrasound specialist looks horrified, but I just burst out laughing.

“That was either or,” I point out. “A multiple choice, not an open question.”

“That’s an alien.” He stabs a finger towards the undeniably weird-looking creature bobbing around on the screen because my belly is shifting as I laugh. “That’s what we’re having. That’s what I want.”

My heart twists. The way this man’s mind works surprises and delights me.