Page 47 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don

"Guardian?" I nearly choke on the word, heat rushing through me at the memory of her naked beneath me last Christmas. I can’t be a “guardian” after fucking her. "It would be inappropriate."

"Why?" She tilts her head. "Because we slept together?"

"Because I'm not your damn babysitter," I snap, though that's only part of the truth. "And because having you in my house would be?—"

"Would be what?" she challenges.

Distracting. Maddening. Dangerous.

I can't form the words. "This isn't negotiable, Gabriella. You're either going to Italy or marrying Dominic."

"No, I'm not." Her certainty is infuriating.

“I’m no guardian. Jesus fuck, Gabriella. You’re not a child.”

Her eyes shine with amusement. “No, but you are nearly old enough to be my father.”

"Nearly old enough to be your father?" I scoff, trying not to show how her words sting. "I'm forty-six, not sixty."

"And I'm twenty-eight. Do the math, Don Calabresi. You could've fathered me when you were eighteen. Perfectly possible."

I clench my jaw, hating that she's technically right.

The age gap between us has always been there, making me feel a little perverted for having a powerful attraction to such a younger woman.

Not that it stopped me from fucking her last Christmas.

"The guardian thing is only creepy if you tell my father we had sex," she says like it’s nothing. "Which we both know you'd never do."

"Your father would kill me," I mutter, though we both know that's not entirely true. Antonio might be furious, but he wouldn't move against me.

I would be forced to marry her, though, to make it right.

"No." Gabriella steps closer. "But you would have to marry me,” she echoes my thoughts. “And I'm the last woman on earth you'd ever want to marry. Isn't that what you said to my father?"

Her eyes flash with something that looks like hurt.

Or maybe it’s anger?

I can't tell, and I hate that I care enough to wonder.

"I meant what I said," I reply coldly. "This arrangement you're proposing won't work."

"Why not? You get to keep an eye on me, making sure I don't run to the Feds. I get to protect my father's interests. It's a perfect solution."

"Perfect?" I laugh harshly. "Having you in my house, under my roof? There's nothing perfect about that scenario."

"Afraid you can't control yourself around me?" she challenges, tilting her chin up.

The truth hits too close to home, so I deflect. "Afraid you'll go through my office again the moment my back is turned."

"I'll stay out of your office," she promises. "But I want access to information about what's happening with my father's business."

I study her face, seeing a woman with determination and a fierce protectiveness for her father.

I move away from her, needing distance to think clearly.

The rational part of my brain recognizes the strategic advantage of her proposal.