Secret Baby For The Italian Mafia Don

Part 7

AVA POV:

In two hours, I'm scheduled to meet my husband-to-be for the first time.
I rip through the makeup drawer, amassing a trove of lipsticks and eyeshadow
palettes. They've arranged for a candlelight dinner date at a restaurant,
somewhere classy and upscale. I'm on the clock. Two hours to hide the truth.
Somehow, I have to make it look like I was sleeping peacefully last night, not
getting into fistfights and barely coming home before sunrise.
I've retreated to the third floor. It may be the only place in the house where
Nico can't follow. Salvatore has been extra protective now that his daughter's
nursery is up here, and I imagine Nico is at the very bottom of the allow list.
But I'm far from alone.
Salvatore's wife, Contessa, offers me one of her old dresses and an all-access
pass to her makeup trove, all while standing off to the side and giving me a
look of concerned disapproval. Maybe that look simply comes with being a
mother, or maybe she's practicing on me. Either way, she's good at it, and it
puts me on edge.
"I can't believe Sal didn't consult me," she says again in a furious whisper. If
she didn't have her baby on her shoulder, I think she'd be yelling. "Just
because something happens at four in the morning doesn't mean I shouldn't
hear about it!" She paces the bathroom tiles furiously, bouncing Emma in her
arms. "Sal knew I'd never let it happen if I was there!"
"Tessa, it's okay," I try to tell her, though judging by the glower I'm given,
it's not okay. I turn back to the mirror and busy myself with piling more
mascara onto my eyelashes.
I understand why Tessa's upset. She's the highest-ranking woman in the
house. In a way, she is responsible for us in the same way her husband is
responsible for the family men. Since this agreement happened so spur of the
moment, without Tessa's knowledge or approval, of course she feels slighted
and concerned.
More than the head of the family, Tessa's my friend, and she's worried about
me. I wish I could appreciate that more than I do. Like everyone else, Tessa
thinks she knows what's best for me, but right now, the only thing that's best
for me is the concealer I'm dabbing over my sleepless dark circles.
Do I need to impress this man, or is his approval of the arrangement already a
sure thing? Salvatore is probably paying him to take me. I try not to feel any
particular way about that as my fingers wrap around a dark red lipstick that
will mask the bloodied cut.
Emma starts to fuss in her arms.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Ava?" Tessa asks me over the babbling.
"There are other ways to get around Nico, I know there are. I can help if
you'll let me. We can call the whole thing off before it goes too far."
"I'm sure," I tell her, trying to sound as calm and rational as I can, staring at
my own smoky eyes in the mirror. Why is it so hard for everyone to believe
that I simply don't care? That in my own way, I'm coming out on top of this
deal. Whatever parts of my life a husband will take over, I didn't have any
plans for them anyway.
Tessa has her baby to worry about. The last thing she needs to do is worry
about me, too. When the crying keeps up, Tessa finally sighs and excuses
herself to try to put Emma down for a nap.
I stand alone with my reflection.
It takes a few minutes to get used to her.
A dark little smirk pulls at the corner of my painted lips. I can't remember the
last time I dressed up, and I never dressed like this. Seeing me in a short dress
and sharp winged eyeliner might fast-track Nico to the insane asylum, and I'll
be the hero of the day.
The amusement in my gaze sours into a glare, and I admonish myself for such
a stupid thought.
I'm a few hours from meeting the mysterious man who will play a pivotal
role in my future. My husband. So why am I still thinking about Nico? The
man is like a disease, and now that I've caught him, there's no getting rid of
him. The last thing I need is more of his attention.
I sneak back to my room to get the things I couldn't while I was hiding out
upstairs: a pair of heels, a bag, and a thong to better suit the outfit. I don't
know how far my husband-to-be will want to take our first meeting, but I
figure I better be prepared for all outcomes.
As I push open my door, I find something unexpected in the middle of my
bed. A new iPhone, fresh out of the box and already set up. I flip through it,
confused, wondering if it was Marcel or Sal who replaced it. My fingers
swipe across the screen, then go still. A single name is added in the contacts
list—Nico.
My stomach thumps with surprise. He must have gone into the city today.
I glance around the room, and I can't help but feel as if I'm being watched.
Everywhere I look, I expect to see him. Suspicion creeps into the edges of my
thoughts until I feel the phantom sensation of eyes on me.
There's nowhere for him to hide. I know that, and still...
Maybe I'm just expecting to see him. Maybe I want to.
The thong I left on my bedroom floor is gone. Of course he'd really take it,
the psycho. I dig through the rest of the clothes that I just cleaned, rummaging
deeper and deeper into the pile of fresh laundry. Slowly, I piece together
what's happened. I rush to my dresser drawer only to find it emptier than it
should be.
Nico hasn't just taken the thong I gave him. He's taken all of my underwear.
"That fucker," I whisper, slamming the dresser shut with a huff. I don't have
time to play scavenger hunt, and my pair of pink cotton boy shorts aren't
going to work under the short red dress I borrowed from Contessa. I could
ask to borrow something from her, but then I would have to admit what
Nico's done.
He leaves me no choice but to go without.
Which is exactly what he wants...
I pretend to feel nothing as I slide the panties down and step out of them,
avoiding my own gaze in the mirror. If I don't see myself, maybe I can
convince myself I don't enjoy these little games he's been playing with me,
that the brush of cool air between my legs gives me a thrill as Nico calls the
shots without a single word.
I leave the house, still looking over my shoulder. Every shadow out of the
corner of my eye feels like him, watchful and stifling. I push away the
sensation and order my ride into the city, desperate to escape the massive
house that suddenly seems too small.
At the last gate before we hit the public road, I see they've put Frankie on
guard duty. It's probably a punishment for taking me to the ring, and I feel
bad as the car passes by. Frankie fucking hates guard duty.
My thoughts shift toward the mysterious man I'm driving to meet. The one
I'm going to actually marry. I really don't want to think about it, to just
daydream or make conjectures. I don't want to walk in there with
expectations. I'm focusing on setting up the new phone and making small talk
with the driver when the sound of a familiar engine tears through our
conversation, ripping apart the momentary peace. My heart rate spikes. I
know who it is before I even turn around.
Behind us, Nico's one-of-one surges up, aggressively tailgating our car. My
driver accelerates, but the front of Nico's bumper inches closer and closer
effortlessly, swerving left and right like a snake ready to strike. The
bewildered driver curses him in a language I don't recognize.
"What the fuck does this guy want?" the man asks as the engine behind us
snarls again.
Me, the little voice in my head answers. She sounds too happy about that.
One wrong move, and we will veer off the road.
Suddenly, Nico swerves violently around us. His black car barrels boldly into
the oncoming lane, inching a little too close to us—a game of chicken
threatening to swap paint. We brake hard as Nico nearly bullies us off the
road. I jolt forward against the seatbelt as the brakes squeal, tires locking up
and burning on the asphalt. We swing toward the edge of the road but
straighten out at the last second.
The driver's curses are furious now. He asks if I know that man. I deny it.
I'm not afraid as we dance around an accident, but my pulse is elevated, my
heart pounding behind my teeth. I wonder if Nico really is going to force us
off the road. If he'll tear open my door, drag me out of the back of the car,
steal me off for his own games again. . .
Fear and fantasy are all twisted up for me.
Nico overtakes us and cuts sharply back into our lane, where he surges
forward again.
Those blazing taillights vanish into the traffic ahead of us.
My poor driver curses under his breath, stunned and confused by what just
happened. He's not the only one. Nico pulls off into the distance, leaving me
questioning and confused in the backseat. I swallow a tiny taste of
disappointment as Nico leaves. Did he really give up just like that? I shut the
thought down before I can finish and look out the window again.
It doesn't matter. Maybe Nico found better things to do now that he's getting
settled back into the free world. Even though I try to rationalize it, some part
of me knows it isn't true, and I find myself looking for his vehicle on the way
to the restaurant. Every black sports car makes my heart skip, but Nico
doesn't reappear.
I reach my destination in one piece, the driver apologizing to me profusely for
the rocky trip. I feel bad for the scare it must have given him. I adjust my tip
to be a lot more generous for the trouble he didn't deserve. Maybe it'll help
pay off his medical bills when the heart attack finally catches up to him.
My thoughts are still swirling around Nico when I reach the restaurant and
step through the revolving door, where my feet freeze as if cemented to the
ground. The spacious room goes small and narrow, tilting dangerously under
my feet. I stare into the restaurant, where the sound of a bustling dinnertime
rush catches me like a knife in the ribs. Waiters smoothly weave around the
patrons. Cutlery clinks in the air. White, pristine tablecloths are draped across
every table.
For a moment, I feel blood on my hands, a raw scream perched just under my
tongue, threatening to spill out of my mouth.
This is the kind of place Vinny dreamed of working one day. The future Sal
promised him, that he never lived to see. The light from the distant kitchen
wavers as the doors swing on their hinges, and for one brief moment, I
imagine him there, laughing and yelling with the kitchen staff.
"Ma'am?"
The hostess finally drags my attention to her, her eyes searching my face with
concern. All at once, I'm back in the present, the real world, where I'm
blocking the doorway. People are trying to get by me. I stumble away, half in
this world and half inside myself again.
I manage to rasp the reservation name, which straightens the woman's spine
immediately. She sweeps me graciously toward a table. I sit down alone. My
dinner date isn't here yet, thank God. I ask for an ice water. The moment it
arrives, I scoop a piece of ice from the glass and clutch it between my hands,
trying to ground myself in the here and now. To not slip back into that dark,
hollow place inside my head.
I'm still reeling when a shadow falls over my table, and someone takes a seat
across from me. I look up and see a stranger's face.
My fiancé is not, as Nico so inelegantly put it, "some fat fuck." Just the
opposite. He's tall and gaunt, with a long, narrow nose slightly offset on an
equally long, narrow face. Like most of the Mori family, his hair is jet black.
It's arched into a sharp widow's peak, parted and combed back. His shoulders
are tight, his limbs spidery, and when he sits down across from me, his eyes
crinkle at the corners.
"You know, I think Salvatore sold you a little short," he says in a whispery
voice, extending a hand. "Thaddeus Mori." My palms are wet and freezing,
and I desperately try to wipe them off on my dress. We shake hands.
"Ava," I say, grateful for my single-syllable name. My words are still coming
out dry, my head ringing like a marching band just passed through my
cerebellum.
"Let me take a look at you." Thaddeus gestures for me to stand.
Too dazed to object, I push my chair back and stand before him. His eyes
roam up and down my body, coming to some kind of silent conclusion.
"Well, that's a good start," he jokes, and motions for me to sit again. "I didn't
know they were having to sell women like you."
"I'm sure Salvatore explained the circumstances," I manage. "What are
yours?"
"Divorced once. No children. Right bloodline." He smiles tightly, lifting only
one side of his face. "Who knew that sort of thing came in so handy in this
day and age? I'm a better businessman than a romantic, and I know a good
opportunity when I see one."
I nod, understanding that all too well. At least we're both being practical
about this.
I am still lost in my thoughts, keeping my eyes down, trying to get a grip on
myself.
"Are you nervous?" he asks when I struggle to make eye contact.
"Something like that."
The waiter arrives to offer us wine options, but Thaddeus interrupts him and
orders us whatever is most expensive, verbatim. I get the sense Salvatore is
footing the bill for this meal.
The first course of the dinner is brought out, and my stomach stirs uneasily. I
try not to look at it. I had a hard time even eating home-cooked meals after
Vinny died. The occasional greasy bag of fast food kept me alive, the only
thing I could stomach for a while. Being served the full fine dining
experience, hand-cooked by a chef, makes my heart beat double in my chest.
"I suppose we should be practical about this, shouldn't we?" Thaddeus asks,
popping his fingers one by one. "Tell me about yourself."
I stare into my plate, desperately trying to recall anything about myself that's
still true.
"Oh, you know," I mumble, trying for a smile, "long walks on the beach and all..."
He doesn't smile in return, his eyes dim and expectant as they stare into me.
"Right," he finally says, as if I've missed the mark, "I mean, more practically,
your family's medical history, your personal finances, your sexual history,
any circumstances I should know about. I know Sal's type, and I know he can
be crafty when he has to be. I don't appreciate having something pulled over
on me. As for the rest of your...preferences." He waves his hand. "I'm sure
we'll get to the minutiae in time."
I feel stupid for misunderstanding, forcing myself to chew through the
appetizer.
I prattle off the limited facts of my family's medical history. Thaddeus seems
to approve of how dull it all is, nodding to himself, not caring that I can
barely string two sentences together.
"And your sexual history?" he prompts again, so casually.
"None," I mutter.
"Right," he laughs, lowers his already murmur-soft voice. "Did Salvatore
give you a checklist you're supposed to read me?"
His distrust makes my knuckles whiten around my fork and knife.
"The way I see it," I start, my voice finally picking up, "you're getting too
good of a deal to turn me down no matter what my sexual experience is like.
Why would I bother lying about it? Salvatore has plenty of family members
he could make this same arrangement with. If you were going to have any
hang-ups over the basic facts, you would have already discussed those with
him. Not me."
His lips press into a white line as he regards me.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I slide it into my lap where I can check it. A
text message from Nico pops up on the screen:
Missing me yet?
I type back a hasty:
No.
I ignore the flicker of excitement that sparks in my stomach and distract
myself with the next course. It's good, of course it's good, yet it feels like
sawdust in my mouth. I stare at my husband-to-be, watching his mouth
moving and chewing, while I am locked in a memory of Vinny handholding
me through his love of all things culinary, teaching me how to appreciate the
things I always turned my nose up at: black truffles and foie gras and roe. I
clutch my ice water in a vise, struggling to remember the questions being
asked of me, when my phone vibrates again.
Well, I miss you.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but it's a timely distraction from my own
spiraling thoughts. I grab onto Nico's distraction like a ledge, keeping me
from falling further and further into my own head.
I miss my panties.
You didn't need them. He was never gonna make you wet.
"Are you distracted, Ms. St. Clair?"
I glance up, surprised by the feeling of a slight smile tugging at the corner of
my mouth.
"No, sorry," I whisper, clearing my throat and silently chastising myself for
letting Nico bait me into his games. I turn the phone over in my lap and fix
my expression.
"We may need a no phones at the table rule." He laughs softly, but I don't
think he's joking. "I don't talk for my own benefit. At the end of the day, this
is a business meeting, and there are matters we need to get out of the way if
you can spare your oh-so-coveted attention..."
"I'm listening," I assure him, keeping eye contact while my phone trembles
on my thigh again and again.
"I like to run a very traditional household. Of course, I'm not unreasonable. I
just won't tolerate being disrespected. You'll have to stop dressing like a
whore, for instance," he says. The insult catches me off guard, and I swallow
my food too early. It scrapes through my throat all the way down as I stare at
him. "And you'll be expected to keep up your appearance. Watch your
weight, keep yourself presentable. Nothing unusual, and nothing that seems
like it'll be difficult for you. You're very pretty. Of course, one should never
be complacent. If you want any work done, I'd be comfortable paying for
that. I prefer blondes, too, and you'll need to grow out your hair more than
that."
My fingers run through the ends of my shoulder-length shag reflexively, the
sudden checklist of all the things wrong with me catching me off guard. What
Thaddeus Mori wants is a blonde, busty trophy wife to hang on his arm, and
he already has an endgame image in his head.
Suddenly, the words that' s a good start have a different meaning.
"Salvatore told me you aren't interested in other partners," he continues right
on, ignoring the way I'm staring at him. "Is that true?"
My phone hums, as if calling me out on the lie I'm about to tell.
"It's true," I say. I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself.
He nods in approval.
"Good. But you also need to understand, a man's character and reputation
aren't impacted by his fidelity. Not in the same way as a woman's. If you
have a reputation, that reflects badly on me. If I have a reputation, that's par
for the course. You'll need to be alright with that."
I'm exhausted just from hearing him talk about his expectations. I don't care
what this man thinks of me or who he sleeps with. Better them than me. I
write it off as another part of the deal that means nothing to me.
"That's fine," I force myself to say.
"That's a pleasant surprise. You know, I also want to make this work," he
assures me, reaching over the table and taking my free hand. It catches me off
guard as he curls his fingers around mine. "I'm sure you have your own
expectations."
I try to think of anything I might want from this man. For him to let go of my
hand would be a nice start, and if we're going blow for blow, I should
probably ask him to have a nine-inch dick and add a couple more inches to
his height.
I lower my eyes and drown the words in wine, instead. I will make this work,
and I will not be a bitch about it. For Marcel, and for me.
"If I'd known you wanted a list of demands, I would have come better
prepared."
"You don't know what you want in a husband?"
I smile at him, chewing on the words I don't want a husband until they're
small enough to swallow instead of spit out.
"What I want out of this, I've already been promised. I'm sure we both have."
"Quite right." Thaddeus smiles as we start on the next course.
When I flip my phone over, I find Nico has sent a volley of texts, rapid-fire,
one after the other:
That won't change when he has you in bed, either.
I bet he won't even eat pussy.
Has anyone ever done that to you, Ava? Do you know what
you're missing?
You need me to get between your thighs and show you?
Unsubscribe.
I turn the phone over again, but an uncomfortable heat has already blossomed
in the pit of my belly. I try to focus on something else. Thaddeus tells me
about his life and his work—he plays some administrative role in the
conglomerate of businesses owned by the Mori family. His work sounds
mostly clean and unquestionable, boring enough that it can't fully keep my
attention. He asks me nothing more about myself.
I try to focus on the room instead, but every smell and sound brings  back
memories of Vinny in full, agonizing technicolor. I have nowhere to retreat
but inside my own head, where Nico lurks between every other thought.
I glance at my phone again. Nico has sent a gif—an artful shot of a man's
face buried between a woman's thighs, moving in slow motion. I watch it
loop, watch her body shudder upward over and over.
Let me ruin you.
My mouth goes dry, my thighs clenching. The picture doesn't do much for
me, but the words slip right between my legs. I reach for my wine again,
drinking too much too fast.
"Are you alright?" The sudden question snaps me out of my daze. I realize
I've been staring at the man across from me, heat building in my cheeks and
thighs, though the unwanted fantasy playing out behind my eyes has nothing
to do with him. "You look a little pink."
I swallow hard, reaching for an excuse.
"I'm just starting to think I don't measure up," I murmur.
Thaddeus likes that. For the first time, I notice the man's interest in me spike
as he really looks at me. He leans forward over the table.
"You will," he says, soft and smug. "We'll make sure of it."
I try to picture what it will be like when this man inevitably fucks me.
My imagination won't even allow it. It twists him into someone else. It
should be Vinny. It's always been Vinny before. Gentle, loving, and laughing
through the awkwardness. That was how it was supposed to be. Now, it's a
powerful body moving above me in the dark, with unmistakable gray eyes
and no mercy when I squirm and sob under him.
My thighs feel slick, my heart heavy, my stomach queasy.
I swallow another glass of overpriced wine and pointedly ignore the
judgmental way Thaddeus Mori looks at me for it. He thinks I'm impressed
with him. Starstruck by his glorified office worker credentials. I fight the urge
to roll my eyes as we smile at each other. I feel nothing for him at all. That's what will make this easy.
He probably doesn't even eat pussy.

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