Page 15 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss (Oops Baby #1)

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?”

“My men went door-to-door.”

“You visited every Emily Smith in the country?” I say with disbelief.

He tilts his head in agreement.

“You’re crazy.” But I admit, I’m flattered. I had no idea he was looking for me.

“Worked with a glass slipper.” He glances to the side, where I’m in the passenger seat, a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry, but I end up doing neither, as we lapse into silence. It’s not quite the peaceful companionship of when we listened to audiobooks together, because there’s an electric charge now. We’re two live wires, liable to spark.

He turns off the motorway, and before I can ask what’s going on, he’s pulled up outside a restaurant. A fancy-looking one, and when he opens my car door, I finger my pink cotton dress nervously.

“I don’t have the right clothes…” I mutter.

Markov blinks at me as though I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand.

“And I don’t need to stop for food.”

His gaze dips to my waist, expression serious. “We have to look after our baby.”

My heart inflates without my say-so. We? Our? And a full sentence with a verb and everything?

So when he offers me his hand, I take it.

In the restaurant, he’s rude, there’s no doubt. But the way he doesn’t fill in is so honest, I find I like it. There’s no pretence. He indicates for me to order first, and I dither, but settle on a burger with all the trimmings because I’m hungrier than I thought, and rose lemonade.

And he just puts up fingers to indicate two, and the waitress takes a second, but gets it.

“You’re having pink lemonade?” I laugh as she leaves.

He nods.

“What do you usually do when you need to order food?” How does he manage?

“If you wait, they make suggestions,” he says with a wry smile. “And I don’t go out much.”

“Oh, that’s smart.” I’m just wondering what I should say, when Markov huffs.

“I shouldn’t have left.” His brows are low, and he seems uncomfortable, but he pushes through before I can say that he doesn’t have to. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.”

There’s a lump in my throat, and I have to swallow back tears as Bratva boss Markov, black suit, black hair, grey at his temples, stubble on his jaw, takes a calm sip of his pale pink fizzy drink.

“I didn’t know what to do afterwards, and I had a plan for the next day. I thought you’d be there.”

I had this all the wrong way around, and after three months of being on my own with this pregnancy, and spending every waking hour looking after my mother, it’s all a bit much when our food arrives without my having to cook it.

I tear up as I blink at the food on my plate. He had a plan?

“My manager sacked me,” I say with a little hiccup.

“I know. I killed him.” His words are heavy stones dropping through water.

It’s my turn to be unable to speak. I suppose I should have guessed, because that’s how the Silent kingpin of Mortlake deals with things, but, wow. It’s not as though I wished Denis a long and happy life, but dead ?

Markov shrugs. “I was very angry. What we did meant a lot to me, and you were gone.”

“It was my first time,” I blurt out, my face flaming. “So I didn’t know what I should do when?—”

“Mine too.” He nods like this is obvious, and spears some deep-fried potato deliciousness with his fork. I’m momentarily distracted by his mouth as he eats.

My brain catches up with what he just said.

“Wait. Your first time…?” I search for something plausible. “Without a condom?” I whisper in an undertone, darting my gaze around to check there’s no one near enough to hear. “Or in the office?” That makes sense, because?—

“Either.”

I’m a browser with too many tabs open, stuck with a spinning wheel and never loading. I cannot understand.

Markov gazes levelly at me, as though he hasn’t casually mentioned that he—gorgeous, wealthy, powerful—was a virgin when he screwed a girl so low down in his organisation I literally worked in the basement.

“Sorry, for a moment there I thought you said you were a virgin,” I give a little laugh to indicate how absurd I’m being.

Markov’s eyes narrow, but he picks up his burger and takes a casual bite.

And that’s when I get it. Or begin to. He’s serious.

“But you must have had women throwing themselves at you.”

“They weren’t you,” he says roughly.

My heart does a flip-flopping thing. When a man who talks so little does speak, it means something.

“You didn’t know me,” I protest, but I can’t deny I like the idea.

He puts down his burger and watches me, and his grey eyes are so steady.

“I wasn’t interested.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t risk assassination. Security. Time.” He gives a dry smile. “I was busy.”

I nod, because that makes sense.

“But really, I was waiting for my mate.”

My laugh is a forced sound. “Like you’re a fae?”

His gaze dips. “A tattoo.” He reaches over the table and sweeps the back of his fingers down my bare arm, leaving a trail of heat and goose pimples as I respond to him. My body fizzes when he’s near, just as it did before. “Showing you’re mine.”

“Not here?” I indicate my thigh, where the mate mark is on Solene in our audiobook, trying to sound cool.

His mouth hitches up as he takes in my bump. “I have a claim there already,” he drawls softly. “Somewhere visible. Always.”

It’s so entirely possessive and unsubtle.

I blush. Because, yes, for six more months, it’ll be very obvious that he and I did the horizontal tango. And after that… I wonder whether the baby will look like him?

I hope so.

“You’re mine, Emily. And I’m yours.”

That statement shimmers over my skin, but I’m having trouble believing this is real.

His home is downriver from the Mortlake offices I worked in, and is an enormous old building with the plain lines of a Georgian mansion.

I gather all this at pace, because Markov drags me through the entrance hall, holding my hand like I’m a wild animal who will make a bolt for freedom instead of a very eager girl.

Down a hallway, there are wooden double doors, and he throws them open. And I gasp. My eyes pop out of my head, and I think I might faint.

It’s a huge, circular library, and as I stumble in, Markov vibrating with tension next to me, I see it’s three floors high. There’s a graceful staircase that sweeps down into the marble floor.

And the shelves are packed. Each one has books of all the same height and colour, perfectly matched.

I drift towards the nearest, and realise that it has every book published by a fantasy author I’ve read.

Have I mentioned them to Markov? And another shelf has all the books by an author we listened to one of their books together.

This is unbelievable. There are little plates too.

A letter signifying the author’s surname, and the books are all lined up alphabetically.

There are no spaces, or gaps. And as I gaze at all, my heart might just fly away.

I trail my fingers over the books. It’s more books than I’ve ever seen in my life, even in a big bookshop.

A lifetime of reading.

The shelves curve around underneath the large staircase, and I come to a doorway. I look back at Markov, who is two steps behind, his hands in his pockets, dark head bowed. I swear there’s uncertainty in his grey eyes as he nods, indicating for me to go in.

It’s dimly lit, and my eyes take a second to adjust. Then I see more shelves, but in an intimate space.

An oversized chair nestles in the middle.

It’s as big as a double bed, and mostly covered with a heavy, soft-looking throw.

There’s a little table built-in, charging cables neatly rolled, and a set of matching headphones from a brand I can’t afford.

“It’s an audiobook nook!” I laugh, my delight bubbling out of me, and I turn to grin at Markov.

There’s a mini fridge stocked with drinks, and shelves full of snacks, all within reach of the sofa. It’s the perfect snuggly reading space. A small table lamp glows gold, turning the pink covers to peach.

My heart aches. Is this really for me?

My gaze snags on a shelf at chest height. It’s filled with what look like gorgeous special editions, displayed edges out to show the pictures that I’ve seen—and pined after—online.

“ Game of Thorns and Dragons !” I exclaim. It feels like our series. “It has its own section.”

And in the middle, there’s a sheaf of papers, stark against all the brilliant colours.

“What’s that?” I point at the plain white pages.

Markov doesn’t speak. He nudges me forward until I can read the small, printed title and the author, along with a signature.

It takes me a second to realise it’s a manuscript, and then another for it to sink in that it’s the book we were listening to together when he beckoned me over and I ended up pregnant.

“When did you buy this? Where did you even get it?” I flick through the pages. It’s annotated in blue ink, and all the breath whooshes from my lungs.

This is an original manuscript.

I look up at Markov. He has his face turned to the side, as though guilty.

“I bought it. One day after we met,” he confesses in a low, husky voice.

My mouth falls open. He read it. I can see it.

“You knew!”

He grabs the back of his neck, and has the decency to appear sheepish.

“You really did plan,” I say in disbelief. He must have known what was going to happen in the book, and had the idea of us playing along.

He takes my hand and gently tugs, his expression flickering with emotions I don’t catch.

“Are you trying to distract me?” I demand, mock-outraged.

He smirks, and Markov’s arrogant, unrepentant self is back.

But his big hand around mine and the revelation that he planned my seduction is a warm jacket I can’t resist. He really wanted me? He searched for me, and he’s happy about the baby?

It’s all too good to be true. It’ll be taken away, for sure, because something this wonderful doesn’t happen to a person like me.

It’s difficult to think with him near me, though.

Just like that day when we listened to the audiobook, I give myself over to instinct.

I follow as he leads me out of the cosy audiobook nook and up the stairs.

There are even more books up here. Mostly ones I haven’t read, all in glossy new editions.

On the balcony, I realise what he’s taking me to and gasp.

It’s a ladder. An honest to god, book-accessing ladder, in brass and shiny brown wood. He keeps holding my hand but guides me towards it, seemingly unwilling to let me go, but also keen for me to explore.

Unable to suppress my smile, I step onto the bottom rung, grabbing the ladder for balance, then going up one more when I see a romantasy book on a higher shelf that released last year and I’m still in the library queue to get it.

I’m about to let go of Markov’s hand and reach for the book, when there’s a click from beneath me, and the whole ladder slides to the side.

I shriek, and simultaneously pull myself towards the ladder and Markov, until I realise it’s him that’s doing this . He has a naughty, boyish expression on his face.

The ladder is on rails, and he’s set it in motion.

Then he’s sliding me along behind him, and I’m giggling because this is all so crazy and unexpected. I’m doing the gliding on a library ladder thing!

My cheeks ache with smiling by the time he’s slid me all the way down one side and then back, and I swear the delight is contagious, because he appears as enchanted as I am. Maybe even more so, as the light in his eyes is totally unlike him. Usually so grumpy.

I don’t dare think that this is all for me. Every book girly has seen that cartoon film where she’s in the library, but it’s a crazy coincidence. Right?

“How did you know I’d love this?” I’ve never said anything about libraries to him.

He brackets me with his arms, and because of the height difference, for once I can look him straight in the eye. His face has gone serious, no playfulness or youth now.

Every inch the powerful mafia boss, the silver at his temples glints. A reminder that he’s rich and older, and this can’t work.

He really is outrageously handsome. Those long lashes and his square jaw make my tummy flutter. Or perhaps that’s the way he’s staring at me. Hungrily. Like I’m a tasty morsel he’d like to consume whole.