Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss: Chapter 2

When I was five, I learned about dinosaurs. They were the most exciting thing I’d ever seen, those long-dead, scaly, winged beasts.

When I was twelve, I discovered guns. Powerful. They spoke words I couldn’t, and I grew in confidence. When I point a gun at someone, they tell me what I need to hear.

And since I was a teenager, Mortlake has been my life. Even before I took over as Pakhan—the leader of a Russian Bratva faction—Mortlake was my obsession. I learned how to navigate the world—or at least London.

Dinosaurs. Guns. Mortlake.

And now a slip of a girl, who looks nothing like a dinosaur or a gun, has efficiently captured all my attention.

It’s constant.

She might have fallen at my feet, but she brought me to my knees. From the first moment I looked around the door yesterday morning and glimpsed her, I’ve thought of nothing else. I was restlessly walking through the Mortlake headquarters as I often do at odd times of day when no one is in, and her audiobook caught my attention. Then there she was.

She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, but that’s not what makes her special.

I can see her. She’s not a confusing black box to be forced open with a gun like every other person in the world. Each thought she had about the audiobook went across her face, as though she were a book herself.

And for the first time, I wanted someone. Interest in the opposite sex passed me by, until her.

Is this how life is for other men? They feel? They yearn? They burn for a woman?

All the fucking time?

It’s exhausting.

It’s exhilarating. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I used to think it was pathetic that most of the London Mafia Syndicate wasted time on their wives, rather than focusing on their mafias. Now, I’m honestly impressed they manage to get so much done.

In short, I haven’t been this excited about anything since dinosaurs. And I didn’t want to fuck dinosaurs.

Emily Smith. I found her name, and it suits her. Beautiful in its simplicity.

Yesterday, I bought and read every Game of Thorns and Dragons book published, right to the cliffhanger at the end of book three that I reached around dawn.

Jumping ahead with reading makes me feel slightly guilty, as though I’m cheating on Emily.

Obviously, that’s insane. She doesn’t know that listening to audiobooks together is how we’re going to develop our relationship and fall in love.

Assuming that’s possible. I’m a mafia boss, socially awkward, prone to killing people, and as talkative as an average desk lamp. It’s not as though I give a shit about societal niceties, but she’s not broken like me, so it might bother her.

Yes, I’m rich. I keep myself in shape.

But she’s also my employee, and I’m old enough to be her father. She can’t be over twenty-two, and I’m forty-one, and the other day I noticed a grey hair at my temple.

This morning, I pulled out every grey I found.

Twenty-seven of them.

I might need to develop a taste for pain, or maybe dye my hair.

I briefly consider searching online for how to appear younger, but stop myself. It could yet come to surgery and anti-wrinkle creams, but I’ll try taking an interest in her hobbies first.

A message lights up my phone screen, and since I’m in dire need of a distraction, I open the app.

Five hundred unread messages in the “London Mafia Syndicate” group chat. Huh. I thought it was called the “London Maths Club” after someone didn’t want to reveal that they were a mafia boss to their wife so lied that it was a maths society. Seems logical to me. If my options were lies or Emily running away screaming in fear, I’d be Pinocchio every day.

I’m not reading all those messages, but thankfully it pops to the latest.

I blink. I’ve never wanted to go to mafia social events before, even those run by Bratva components like Mayfair, but I haven’t been in love with Emily before. She likes books, so I like books, and this is a book event.

My fingers pause over the screen as I consider whether to respond or search for the details. Asking is quicker, but I’m hardly more comfortable with typed messages than I am speaking.

Thankfully Rotherhithe, another of the London Bratva bosses, comes to my aid.

I would really, really like to take Emily. Perhaps as my assistant if not my date? But then I remember that we only met yesterday, and she doesn’t know yet that we’re destined to be together.

Doesn’t mean I can’t attend and buy her books.

Mayfair replies with details and location, along with the assurance that Grant Lambeth and his wife would be welcome. I take that as an invitation for myself too.

Checking the time, I sigh impatiently. Still too early. With a sigh, I glance out of my top-floor office across the pale ribbon of blue river, then search online for “What do women who like books want?”

The first answer is simple. Books.

Book buying trips. More book budget. Reading time. At the top of the page there’s an images tab, and since I am very much a deeds not words man, I click it. The screen fills with pictures of libraries. Multi-level, with ladders to access the high shelves. There are also oversized chairs, and books with painted edges.

And there are a lot of two images. One is a cartoon picture of a library with sweeping staircases, and another with a girl in a blue dress hanging off a ladder next to a bookshelf.

Ahah. My house has a library, but it’s small. However, there is also a large ballroom that I’ve never liked. Balls go with speaking to people, and that’s definitely not my strength.

But I have money, and maybe I can convince Emily without words that I’m the one she wants.

With an architect hired, I set off for the basement archive room only a few minutes earlier than yesterday. I’m still alone, but for once, I know I won’t be all day.

This time, I don’t get to stand in the doorway and admire her. She looks up as though she’s expecting me, or feels my observation on her skin.

But oof, that expression of mixed fear and happiness—quickly smoothed to professional neutrality—makes me hope, and that’s so dangerous.

She plucks her earbuds out hurriedly. The way I feel about her isn’t rational. It’s like something snapped into place when we met, her a magnet and me base metal.

“Mr Lunacharski,” she says in that sweet voice of hers. “Can I help?”

I walk in with all the careless ease that I can fake. My heart slams between my ribs and my spine.

Her eyes go wide as I put one hand on her desk and pick up her phone with the other. The audio app is on the lock screen, and I tap the play button.

The audiobook we were listening to yesterday rings out.

After a few sentences, I frown. It’s further on than the part it stopped on when her mother rang and interrupted.

Emily notices my change of expression. “I’m sorry. I can rewind it. I listened on the way to work.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to spoil her commute. That won’t make her like me enough to overlook my less-than-desirable traits.

“I can tell you what happened if you prefer?” she says over the audiobook. “So you’re caught up?”

I smack the pause button, because yes. Her talking to me is ideal.

She looks up at me with a pleased half-smile, and I ease back, propping my hip against her desk.

“They were looking on a mountain ridge for the power enhancers, and disturbed an enormous black dragon. It was about to torch them all, but Rovaj speaks dragon language, and it only attacked Athdar. Solene jumped in front of Athdar to defend him, and the dragon stopped and then flew off.”

My lips quirk up. I’ve been known occasionally to use fire against men who have something that I want. Rovaj seems reasonable to me.

“He’s a prick,” she mutters. “Rovaj, that is.”

I shrug.

“You like him?” she says with disbelief. “But he’s the villain!”

My expression must give me away, because she snorts a little laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. Although Rovaj’s behaviour in book one is quite murdery, he saves Solene several times in books two and three.

I relate to him.

“Right. On brand,” she adds under her breath. “Ready to continue?”

I nod, but as the tinny sound of her phone’s speakers fills the room, I can’t help thinking. Would she be more likely to fall for me if I weren’t the villain?

I’m not sure how to be anything but an anti-hero, but for her, I would try.

She sneaks covert peeks at me from under her lashes as we both listen, her continuing her work, which I guess is part of the modernising project I started when I took over Mortlake.

Pulling up the tiny chair I used yesterday, I lie back and watch her. I read all of this last night, of course, so it’s familiar, and just an excuse to be near Emily.

I haven’t felt so peaceful in years. You’d think my top-floor office in this old warehouse building overlooking the River Thames would be soothing, but apparently if it’s with Emily, my dark soul wants the basement, surrounded by dusty archives.

We listen for almost an hour, until her phone cuts the audiobook off mid-sentence again. She silences the tone, and gives me a guilty look. “It’s my mother…”

I’m already out of my chair, returning it to its place, waving my hand to indicate she should take the call. The last thing I want to do is cause her problems.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” she calls, the phone still ringing in her hand, and I stop in the doorway.

I nod. This is so easy. Like she understands me. Like she wants this too.

“I’ll leave it at this place and not listen⁠—”

I make a disapproving noise, shaking my head.

“Oh. Okay. But shall I update you on what happened in the bits you miss?”

There we go.

I smile, because she’s perfect. Too sweet and good and considerate for me, but if I can win her, I don’t care how mismatched we are. She nods, then answers the phone, and I walk away, leaving my heart behind.

I’m going to buy her an engagement ring today.

She’ll be mine, though I don’t know how. Yet.