Page 47 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

Markov snorts with laughter that he turns into a cough.

I glare at him. Markov is listening, but also unrolling his sleeves to cover his tattooed forearms. I almost protest. I like that view. It’s the one thing keeping me sane.

“You’re an adult, you don’t need a toy?—”

Markov rumbles a low chuckle.

“Everyone needs toys,” I reply smoothly, but Natasha is scowling.

“It’s my toy now. I was going to take it to school.”

Oh no. No no no.

I shoot a panicky glance at Markov, press my hand to my belly and pray that this next child is a boy and not obsessed with penises. Peni. What’s the plural...?

Dicks. With dicks.

Markov gives me an innocent look, almost bland, then turns to our daughter, who is on the verge of a meltdown.

“Natasha.” He says her name with a rasp in his voice from disuse, and his customary efficiency.

Her head snaps up.

He picks up the disputed dick or mushroom or whatever it is, and flicks it this way and that.

She watches sulkily.

Even I don’t see how he does the trick.

One second it’s in his fingers, the next it’s gone, and Markov is holding out his hands.

Natasha gasps in shock. “What happened to the mushroom?”

Markov shrugs and searches performatively left and right, as though trying to find the plastic knob.

“It was a magic mushroom,” I say, lips twitching with mirth.

“But who will you be at the tea party now?” she protests, also looking under the table, with her dad.

How he got away with that without causing tears, I’ll never know.

Instead, he leans one long arm—suspiciously full at the cuff—into a pile of other toys and pulls out a stuffed rabbit.

Oh no.

“Bunny!” Natasha exclaims, and takes the accessorised soft toy from her dad’s big hand. It was the must-have toy a few months ago, and of course Markov bought it for Natasha, complete with Velcro-on accessories.

In this case, fruit.

So wholesome. If only they weren’t two plums and a banana placed right between the rabbit’s paws. Below its waist.

Natasha fusses with placing the bunny in the correct place at Markov’s knees, but my mischievous husband leans over andgrabs my chin, pulling me in for a brief, hard kiss. And although there are no tongues or lingering nips, heat flushes into me.

His other hand brushes my stomach as he withdraws, a silent promise. He looks after me in every way.

Then he’s straightened, and gazes down seriously at Natasha. Tapping his long index finger on the comically small cup, he demands, “Tea.”