Page 2 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss (Oops Baby #1)

“He can’t get a girl into bed,” sneers Athdar. “This is probably the closest he’s had to sex, ever.”

“I don’t get girls into bed,” Rovaj replies indifferently. “I wait until they beg, and then I accept.”

“It’s the first book of the Game of Thorns and Dragons series,” I say, the compulsion to explain too strong. “It’s really popular. Huge. There’s a television show.”

He tilts his head, then with deliberate movements, leans against a storage cabinet.

Thankfully, the characters have stopped having moist sex, and are arguing about the whereabouts of the power enhancer.

“This is chapter ten. Do you want to know what’s happened so far?” I have no idea why I offer, but he nods curtly, brows remaining low.

I pause the audiobook.

“The main character is Solene. She’s a human, but she has some fae powers after an accident. Fae is like… magical,” I add as Markov’s brow creases. “She’s been banished from her family, and is at a training camp for fae. Athdar is her friend.”

Markov raises one eyebrow sceptically.

“Yes, well. Best friend.” That’s a better way of putting it than to say they had sex so cringeworthy I nearly broke a rib.

“And Rovaj is horrible. He’s one of the instructors and took one look at her when she arrived and said, ‘I can’t train her’, and walked away.

Now everyone believes Solene is useless.

That’s why she and Athdar are searching for the power enhancers.

They’re supposed to only work for fae, though, so Athdar is going to use them to help Solene,” I finish breathlessly.

The smile on Markov’s generous, kissable lips is almost invisible, but the nod of approval makes my tummy flip all the same.

I press play, and after a few minutes of wondering if Markov will jump on me and kill me any second, I relax, and we listen in companionable silence.

Markov finds a chair from the back, and lounges in it, all long lines, looking like a wolf making itself comfortable on a cat bed by sprawling over the whole thing.

I continue with the notebook digitisation, painstakingly typing all the numbers into the spreadsheet, while hyperaware of the mafia boss’ presence.

In the audiobook, they’re in the mountains, still searching for the power enhancers.

A black dragon rears up, and gives a dark, low, rumble that makes the ground shake.

Literally. The desk shakes.

The audiobook cuts off mid-word.

Oh no. Not again.

Like clockwork, my phone buzzes. I know without looking that it’s my mother. She calls every day at almost exactly the same time. She thinks she’s dying at least three times a week, and begs me to return home to see her on her deathbed.

Markov looks down at my phone, and narrows his eyes as he reads, “Mum” as the name.

“Just my mother,” I babble, reaching for my phone. “I’ll call her back later.”

But he swipes it away before I can grasp it, hitting the speaker button.

I freeze.

Markov still doesn’t say anything. He returns the phone to the table, and without a backwards glance, turns and walks out of the office.

I’m left gasping like a fish as my mother demands, voice echoing in the empty room, “Emily? I’m feeling so poorly today. I slept terribly, and?—”

I snatch up the phone, craning my head to hear Markov’s footsteps. They’re heading away from me, as heavy and regular as a huge drum.

“Hey, sorry you’re unwell. I only have a few minutes,” I say.

“You have no time for me,” she huffs, still on speakerphone. “I’m only your mother. The one who birthed you, fed you, wiped your bottom. You were such a fussy baby, always being sick.”

I wince. I hope Markov is well out of earshot.

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” I reply. “But my line manager will be here soon.”

“That’s more important.” Her martyrdom is in full force, thankfully into my ear this time. “Than one of your last opportunities to talk with me.”

“I’ll call you later,” I promise. “Love you, bye!”

Right on schedule, my manager walks in, scowling. I’m expected to be in early and leave late, even though Denis has never walked into the office more than ten seconds before his allotted timetable. I’ve completed all the work he set for me.

It’s funny how he’s totally different to Markov. Superficially, you’d say they were the same. Mafia men in their forties. But where Markov is tall and dark and dangerous and gives me tingles up and down my spine, Denis Petrov repulses me.

“Have you finished the tasks I gave you to finish yesterday?” he snarls.

“Yes, sir.” I shove the pile of notebooks to the side. “The spreadsheet is in your inbox.”

But even so, he comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder. I know he’s not looking at my work. He’s trying to look down my top.

“Fine,” he says eventually.

I give a silent sigh of relief as he moves away.

Despite my creepy line manager, there are actually three good things about my job, it seems. Being independent, listening to audiobooks in the morning, and the chance of seeing the Russian mafia Bratva boss himself. Markov Lunacharski.