Page 9 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss (Oops Baby #1)

MARKOV

My stomach is in knots from the moment I wake at two in the morning, with the realisation I shouldn’t have walked away when Emily’s phone rang. Sometimes the world is full of all these social rules that I break before I fully understand them.

Giving a girl space to talk to her mother has felt like the right thing, but my middle-of-the-night brain decides on a different interpretation.

Maybe she thinks I don’t want to do that again? Or she could be telling herself that I didn’t like that she was a virgin too, when the truth is the opposite.

It doesn’t matter. Well, it doesn’t matter to me, I know Emily is mine, and she’ll get the idea soon too.

I spent yesterday putting the finishing touches on her library. When she sees it, she’ll understand all the things I can’t put into words. That I’d do anything to make her happy. She’s perfect in every way, belongs to me, and will live with me.

The next section of the romantasy we’re listening to has Rovaj taking the heroine to his palace. When we reach that part of the audio, I’ll take her hand in mine, lead her to my car, drive her to my home, and show her the library.

My stomach twists as I walk into the Mortlake building. It’s similar to a combination of the feeling before Camden water-boarded me, and the first time I saw a T-Rex skeleton.

I’ve definitely never felt like this before.

I’m only just holding myself together, and I can’t get my head to quiet at all. It’s full of images of Emily when I was inside her. If she says no... I’m not sure I can take that. Or what if she’s hurt because I fucked up yesterday?

I swallow down the sensation, but it’s back in my mouth by the time my throat has bobbed.

This is… I cannot fuck this up. If it takes words, fine.

If it requires kidnap, that’s okay too. Maybe preferable to words, actually. Clearer. More my style.

As I make my way down the corridor to Emily’s office, that thought solidifies in my mind.

Yes. Abduction. I’ll just tie her to my bed, or lock her in the library, and lick her pussy until she understands she’s mine.

Mine .

Fuck. She’s as necessary as air. My heart becomes a ridiculous fluttering creature as I round the corner and come face to face with a closed wooden door.

My stomach drops, and my brain scrambles to keep up. I shove it, twisting the handle viciously.

Why is it shut? It’s ruined that sweet moment when I see her before she sees me. I’m furious even before the door yields and slams back against the wall, the bang echoing. Then silence.

Total, quiet. No tinny speaker playing an audiobook. No tap of the keyboard or swish of notebook pages.

I’m light-headed. I grip the doorframe.

No.

No . Where is she? I’d yell if I was that sort of person. Instead, I propel myself into the room, shoving her chair aside as though she might be under the desk, and storming into the adjacent office of her manager.

I have too much blood in my body. It’s everywhere, the pressure too high, and it’s just red, over my eyes and pushing at my skin.

Where is she?

For three months she has been here every single weekday morning. Is it a weekend and I somehow didn’t notice? Time travelled maybe. Was knocked out and had amnesia from Monday to Friday?

The phone I pull from my pocket says, no. It’s Tuesday, as it should be.

Except she should be here .

Perhaps she’s ill. The thought makes me crazy. I have to find her.

The back of my mind suggests other reasons.

She doesn’t want you. She didn’t want what you did yesterday, and you misread the situation. You fucked it up .

No. I push the thoughts away, devious little bastards, getting in my head.

I’m terrible with people in general, but not with her. Not Emily. But my blood is already going cold and congealed.

Mortlake has always worked with secrecy and anonymity. Methods that I respect, and didn’t mess with too much when I took over. I might be violent, but I don’t break systems that work, and the distribution network based on anonymity functioned for decades.

So as I log into Emily’s computer, I know what I’ll find.

Nothing. There won’t be detailed information about Emily, because that’s not how the previous Kingpin of Mortlake did things.

I open the HR file, and there she is. Emily Smith.

Archives Administrative Assistant. There’s her salary, and a note that Denis Petrov is her manager, but other than that, it’s blank like all the files are.

Not even a date of birth. Nothing that I didn’t already know, because I followed her home after our second meeting.

I will find her.

I hold onto that belief, as I yank the plug out of the computer to turn it off then exit the office and almost run to my car.

It’s still early in the morning, before rush hour in London and the sky is lightening from charcoal to pigeon grey.

I pay about as much attention to red lights and “two plus” lanes as I usually do—that is to say, none—but I also ignore speed limits, other cars, and pedestrians.

No one dies as I make it to Emily’s address in half the time the map app stated, but not because of my actions. I only care about getting to Emily.

She lives in a scruffy Victorian house with three floors. After I shoot the lock to gain entry to the building, and several people scream from inside, I reflect that I probably should have knocked. It’s still only about seven-thirty.

I give a moment’s thought on how best to do this, then bellow, “Emily!”

There’s no response except for shrieks of fear. I barge in through the first door, and find a lounge. Then a kitchen, where a terrified girl in pyjamas is flat against the worn cabinets, shaking.

“Emily,” I say more quietly.

“I don’t know!” the girl stammers.

“Emily,” I repeat, louder and with my gun pointed at her. This is honestly more effective than words in my experience. Most people talk too much. Please, thank you, could you tell me where the... all fucking pointless. A waste of breath.

Except Emily. I could listen to her all day.

“I don’t know where Emily is! She usually leaves for work early!”

I nod in agreement. Yes. That makes sense.

I’m encouraging. So is my gun. Very supportive to her telling me everything without delay.

“I think Josh was here yesterday,” she babbles. “And he knows what goes on because he’s on the same floor as her. She’s room two. He’s room one.”

Anger flashes through me. This Josh lives right next door to her? What the fuck?

I spin and my vision is a tunnel surrounded by red as I storm upstairs until I get to a door with a peeling number “one” stuck to it.

Before I shoot it open, sanity prevails. I grab the handle and, wow these people are trusting, the door opens.

The room is small, and from a double bed, a young guy gets that glazed look of a person who is faced with me holding a firearm, and hasn’t dealt with this type of situation before.

He looks like he might piss himself. “Look man, I didn’t?—”

“Emily,” I say again.

He backs away across the bed, as though the duvet and two feet will make any difference if I decide to kill him.

“She moved out yesterday,” he says, and I’m impressed by how he manages to get out a whole sentence, despite being ready to throw himself from the window.

He didn’t do anything to Emily. He can barely dress himself.

“What room?” Let’s see if his story is the same as the girl downstairs.

“Two,” he croaks.

Her room is empty. I’m hollow as I glare at it. Plain cream-coloured walls, a wooden floor. Cheap wardrobe. I open it, because I’m determined to torture myself, I guess.

Nothing. Spotless. Not even a sock, or a dust bunny. The mattress is stained, but everything else is impeccably clean.

She’s gone. And not the sort of gone that was snatched away. No. This was, if not exactly planned, definitely with the intent of getting her deposit back.

I return to the guy in room one, who is struggling into clothes.

“The landlord.”

He stops, and glances at me warily.

I hold out my hands to show I’ve holstered my gun. For now.

“That’s me. Or, it’s my dad, but I manage it. But I swear?—”

“Where is she?”

“She didn’t leave a forwarding address. I saw her room, I gave her the deposit, and she left. I don’t know where she is.”

My stomach turns to lead and my fingers itch to take out my rage on the nearest person. This kid.

But even I recognise that’s unfair.

She’s not here, and I don’t think this is the reason, sub-standard accommodation though it is.

“Smarten this place up,” I order, and walk out. There’s no need to tell him I’ll return to check. He knows I will, or he’s willing to risk it and die. I know which I’d choose.

Back at Mortlake, staff are streaming into the office block, covertly watching me, or scurrying away.

Not unwarranted. There have been several executions in the main foyer because the time I had available was shorter than the explanation for their total fuck up.

I do not ask lots of questions and balance the weight of probabilities. I trust my gut.

And sometimes that means I shoot people in the front entrance hall of Mortlake’s headquarters when their answers exceed even my capacity to listen.

Everything was simpler when I was just the enforcer for Mortlake and drawing blood was my job, then Camden had to go and kill the old kingpin, and what was I supposed to do? Let his prick of a second-in-command take over and make it all bite-con this and i-tech that?

Clearly not.

My head is crowded with thoughts about what could have happened to Emily, but since it’s the beginning of the normal working day now, I stride to Emily’s office. I need more information, and her manager could have the key to finding her.

The craving to see Emily is as bad as withdrawal. My skin is tight, I’m hyper-focused on her, my pulse is elevated and I’m twitchy. I go down to the basement archive, slightly hoping this was all a mistake and she’ll be waiting for me.

Instead, a middle-aged man with a paunch and a receding blond hairline covered partly by a comb-over rises from the other, much larger desk as soon as I walk in, offering his hand.

“Mr Lunacharski,” he says promptly, “How can I help?”

I’m momentarily soothed by the fact he is forthcoming. I don’t think I’ve interacted directly with him before, because most of the senior management know the best way to stay ahead and alive is to have a good idea of why I’m there.

I point at Emily’s empty desk.

“Ah, yes. I’ve got a new hire arriving this morning.” He preens. “She’s younger, prettier, and will do the job better. Don’t worry, the digitisation will be done, Mr Lunacharski.”

People say fury is hot, but mine is cold. It freezes my body.

This fucking idiot has replaced Emily? There’s liquid nitrogen in my veins, and it must show on my face, because he continues.

“She didn’t complete the work I set for her yesterday, and I had the new girl lined up, so I sacked her. I know you value efficiency.”

He doesn’t know anything about me. I value logic. I’ve watched Emily work, she’s dedicated. But even if she wasn’t, I can see what the real issue is here. Emily wouldn’t sleep with this prick, and so he sacked her.

“It won’t cost Mortlake,” he adds, and I swear he’s fucking pleased with himself. “She was on the usual cash-only terms. She hasn’t got any recourse.”

I don’t even bother to remove my suit jacket. I’m across the room, and my fist is in his face.

His nose breaks first, and the second punch cracks satisfyingly, probably fracturing his jaw.

He splutters from where he’s fallen back into his seat, and I grab him by the lapels to drag him to his feet again, so I can slam my fist into his gut this time. He tries to ward me off, but there’s no way to avoid the blows that strike him hard and fast.

I beat him to a bloody pulp. Far beyond the point that he’s unconscious, and my knuckles are bruised and scraped. Red flecks my white shirt.

This piece of shit is the reason Emily isn’t here, sacked because my girl wouldn’t put out for him.

I step back, breathing heavily. My fists sting. There’s moisture on my cheeks.

Emily is gone. I have no other contact details for her.

My stomach roils with fresh anger. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve pulled the gun from my waist, cocked the safety and squeezed the trigger. The sound reverberates around and there are frightened shouts from neighbouring offices.

Denis’ head splatters over the floor.

I clench my teeth. It’s been years since I’ve lost control like that, with my fists rather than a calculated shot. Not since I was a kid.

I should feel regret, or glee, or something. Possibly irritation that he could have known more about Emily’s whereabouts, and I’ve killed him.

But I don’t.

He deserved that. He didn’t know anything about her, because he didn’t care. He saw her as interchangeable with another girl he was employing. A younger girl.

I make a mental note to check up on that later. And in future, every fucking person employed by Mortlake will be official, and give all their contact details. I don’t care how much fucking tax it costs us.

But for now, I have to have Emily back in my life. And it’s a measure of how desperate I am that I’m going to ask for help.

From the London Maths Club.