Page 9 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don

But my father is being betrayed and I can’t let that happen.

His man approaches, and I shoot him a look that stops him in his tracks. Even Marco's goons know better than to manhandle Don Antonio Monti's daughter.

I glance at Dad, who looks uncomfortable with this confrontation.

The flashes of confusion in his eyes only strengthen my resolve.

He needs me, whether he admits it or not, whether La Corona can accept it or not.

My father steps toward me. “You’re not helping,mia cara.”

I see pleading for me to drop my effort to stay in my father’s eyes. Only because it’s him do I decide to concede.

"I'll wait in the living room.” I glare at Marco. "But this isn't over."

"This way, Miss Monti. I’ll show you to the living room.”

I take a deep breath as Marco's guy extends his hand toward the double doors into the meeting area in Marco’s home.

"Perhaps Miss Monti would prefer the library," Marco calls out. "She always did enjoy private spaces."

I freeze mid-step as the memory blasts back into my mind completely unwanted.

Marco pressing me against his bookshelves, his hands tangled in my hair, books tumbling around us as we lost ourselves in each other.

The library was where it started, where I first gave in to the attraction, and surprisingly, he did too.

I turn slowly, meeting his dark gaze across the distance.

His face remains impassive, but I catch that slight curl at the corner of his mouth. He thinks he's clever.

"The living room is fine," I reply, my voice honey-sweet with poison underneath. "I've outgrown my taste for dusty old things that promise more than they deliver."

The flash in his eyes tells me my barb hit its mark. Good. Let him feel a fraction of what I've felt this past year.

"Though I appreciate your concern for my comfort," I add, because why not? "It's the first you've shown in quite some time."

I turn away before he can respond, continuing toward the living room with my head high, even though inside I feel like a tornado is wreaking havoc.

I refuse to let him see how he still affects me.

I sit rigidly on Marco's expensive leather sofa, my leg bouncing with nervous energy.

The living room is bare of any holiday decor despite Christmas being around the corner.

Last year, the room was decked out, but I suppose that is because he was hosting the holidays for La Corona.

Ten minutes pass. I rise and move about the room looking for something to entertain me while I pass the time.

Twenty more minutes go by. Then thirty.

I strain to hear anything from the meeting room, but no voices carry through to the living room.

What are they discussing? What decisions are they making about my father's territory? About our family's future?

God, if only Luca would come home since La Corona only listens to people with dicks.

But like my father, he seems unconcerned.