Page 6 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

This morning, I pulled out every grey I found.

Twenty-seven of them.

I might need to develop a taste for pain, or maybe dye my hair.

I briefly consider searching online for how to appear younger, but stop myself. It could yet come to surgery and anti-wrinkle creams, but I’ll try taking an interest in her hobbies first.

A message lights up my phone screen, and since I’m in dire need of a distraction, I open the app.

Five hundred unread messages in the “London Mafia Syndicate” group chat. Huh. I thought it was called the “London Maths Club” after someone didn’t want to reveal that they were a mafia boss to their wife so lied that it was a maths society. Seems logical to me. If my options were lies or Emily running away screaming in fear, I’d be Pinocchio every day.

I’m not reading all those messages, but thankfully it pops to the latest.

Mayfair

Don’t forget tonight’s book auction.

I blink. I’ve never wanted to go to mafia social events before, even those run by Bratva components like Mayfair, but I haven’t been in love with Emily before. She likes books, so I like books, and this is a book event.

My fingers pause over the screen as I consider whether to respond or search for the details. Asking is quicker, butI’m hardly more comfortable with typed messages than I am speaking.

Thankfully Rotherhithe, another of the London Bratva bosses, comes to my aid.

Rotherhithe

What’s that?

Mayfair

You buy unique books in aid of charity. Your wife RSVP’d yes for you.

Lambeth

My wife would love that. What time and where?

I would really, really like to take Emily. Perhaps as my assistant if not my date? But then I remember that we only met yesterday, and she doesn’t know yet that we’re destined to be together.

Doesn’t mean I can’t attend and buy her books.

Mayfair replies with details and location, along with the assurance that Grant Lambeth and his wife would be welcome. I take that as an invitation for myself too.

Checking the time, I sigh impatiently. Still too early. With a sigh, I glance out of my top-floor office across the pale ribbon of blue river, then search online for “What do women who like books want?”

The first answer is simple. Books.

Book buying trips. More book budget. Reading time. At the top of the page there’s an images tab, and since I am very much a deeds not words man, I click it. The screen fills with pictures of libraries. Multi-level, with ladders to access the high shelves. There are also oversized chairs, and books with painted edges.

And there are a lot of two images. One is a cartoon picture of a library with sweeping staircases, and another with a girl in a blue dress hanging off a ladder next to a bookshelf.

Ahah. My house has a library, but it’s small. However, there is also a large ballroom that I’ve never liked. Balls go with speaking to people, and that’s definitely not my strength.

But I have money, and maybe I can convince Emily without words that I’m the one she wants.

With an architect hired, I set off for the basement archive room only a few minutes earlier than yesterday. I’m still alone, but for once, I know I won’t be all day.

This time, I don’t get to stand in the doorway and admire her. She looks up as though she’s expecting me, or feels my observation on her skin.

But oof, that expression of mixed fear and happiness—quickly smoothed to professional neutrality—makes me hope, and that’s so dangerous.