Page 14 of Nanny to the Mafia

The munchkin in my arms went from crying to whimpering when she caught sight of her milk to a fat sigh of relief leaving her when it landed in her mouth. The loud, sucking noises were almost music to my ears.

Rosa and Armando both heaved a sigh of relief simultaneously. Armando looked like he was allergic to babies, and Rosa looked utterly exhausted. She also seemed to have a problem with her knee, as she had difficulty walking.

“Signorina Praan is here to take care of our bambina Cora,” Armando said unnecessarily.

“This is Rosa, Signorina Praan. She runs Signor Capizzi’s household in Boston. If you need anything, you can ask her or me. Rosa’s English is not fluent, but she tries her best. You have, of course, already met Cora,” he said, looking wryly at the baby as if he expected her to suddenly kick-start her ninja moves.

“She’s beautiful.” I smiled down at the baby, who was now soundly whacking her milk away with her finger wrapped around mine. Her blonde curls didn’t scream Italian, but she came with an overload of cuteness. She kicked her pudgy legs restlessly while looking at me with the most adorable blue eyes, her tears drying on her chubby cheeks. I had loved working with babies in England, and this was no exception. I held her close to me and inhaled that special baby smell. The closest thing to heaven.

Walking over to the nearby terracotta-coloured sofa, I sat down with her and her bottle of magic.

I looked towards Rosa and asked, “Is it okay if I remove my shoes?” I pointed at my pumps, which had been great for an interview. But they weren’t ideal if I was going to be cuddling around with a baby.

“Sì, sì, certo.” Rosa had the kindest face, accompanied by a lot of wrinkles which showed her age. Her grey hair in a tight bun, she looked like the epitome of ideal grandmother material. Her ample bosom and simple long dress with roses only added to her vibe of comfort and home.

I wondered if my grandmothers would have been like her. My Indian grandmother, I had never met. That side of my family had chosen to never accept my dad after his marriage to my mum. He had brought disgrace to their family by choosing his own wife. Someone outside of their cast, culture, and colour. They kicked him out like a vile insect off their body and never looked me up. They didn’t come for the funeral, even though I had let them know. Their message back to me read, “Vineeth died years ago to us.” If there was ever a sentence to end a relationship that never was, that would be it. My English grandmother, I had vague memories of. I remembered visiting her and spending time at the beach in the summer. But she passed away when I was eight.

I kicked off my shoes and huddled on the sofa, getting comfortable with Cora in my lap.

Rosa came over, collected my shoes, and neatly placed them to the side of the sofa.

“Thank you.”

“No. Grazie.” She came over, lifted my chin, and looked at me through her twinkling eyes. “Bellissima,” she whispered.

I felt myself heating to her compliment. Not my strongest suit, taking a compliment.

Removing the now empty bottle, I burped Cora. The cutie rubbed her eyes and let out a loud burp. I put her over my shoulder and rubbed her back gently. My father used to hum the most beautiful tunes from old Indian songs. I was sure they would soothe Cora.

ANTONIO

A soft, unusual humming grabbed hold of me and drew me through the hallway, leading me to my living room. A rare sight greeted me. Not with my mother or Yuliya. I silently observed my baby girl with the nanny. Divya. Yuliya wouldn’t have been caught dead in this situation. But this woman looked like she was born to be cuddled up on sofas with softly snoring babies in her arms.

I moved closer on silent feet. She seemed to be completely unaware of me. With her eyes closed and humming a strange tune I couldn’t relate to, she looked to be in a world of her own. Her naked feet stuck out underneath her ass, as caramel as the rest of the visible her. Would she be caramel all over, or would she have tan lines? My hands itched to find out, even though my brain told me it wasn’t my brightest idea. My brain took over.

I cleared my throat.

She jerked upright, shushing me. “You are going to wake her up!” she huffed like an angry racoon.

Her pissed-off look sparked something inside me. Make-up sex would be hot with her.

What the fuck.

My brain lost the battle.

I sat down on the armchair opposite her and ran my hand through my thick hair. Distance, that’s what I needed for my brain to fucking work.

“When will your wife be available to go through the baby’s routines?”

Ah! Words that can shrivel a man’s dick.

“She’s not.”

“Oh.” She shot me a curious look. “I can have a call with her—”

“My ex-wife is not in any way involved with my daughter’s upbringing,” I said tightly. Leaning back in the chair, I took a breather. No point in scaring my only option away. With effort, I softened my tone. “What routines do you want to know?”

She obviously wanted to question me more. Women and their curiosity. Divya, unlike me, had not enjoyed years of training in hiding her feelings. Conflict to indulge in her curiosity clearly played on her face before she smartly decided to ignore it. “For her milk, nap time, …”

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