Page 11 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don

“He’s six,” I tell her.

“I hope Marco’s and my children are half as adorable as he is,” Grazia says with a grin. She presses a hand to her abdomen as if she is imagining being pregnant.

“I’m sure they will be,” I tell her. “Actually, there’s something that I should tell you about me and my child.”

“Oh, sure,” Grazia says interestedly. She grabs a drink off a passing tray and waits expectantly for my next words.

I take a deep breath and wet my lips. Screw blending in, screw the low profile. “Well, I think you should know that Marco and I grew up together and that I have been in hiding for the last seven years. Marco has made sure that Mateo and I were as comfortable as possible.”

“I’m sorry, Marco kept you comfortable? Why?” Grazia asked.

My mouth feels dry. “Because he claimed Mateo as his own child after I ran into…difficulties.”

Grazia frowns at me. Her cheeks look pale. “Difficulties,” she repeats. “That child isn’t actually Marco’s, then?”

“As far as anyone else knows, he is,” I reply.

Grazia is starting to look angry. “Okay, I am going to get to the bottom of this. Come with me,” she says firmly.

She begins striding away to the other side of the room, presumably to look for Marco. I did see him heading this way earlier, but I haven’t noticed him come back into the ballroom where the reception is being held.

“Where is my damn husband?” Grazia mutters to herself as she pushes through two large doors leading out into a courtyard.

I hear her gasp, and I hurry to catch up to her. As I peer over her shoulder, I see Elio La Rosa, my Elio, haul back and slug Marco right in the face.

“Marco!” Grazia screams, racing toward the two men struggling on the floor.

Marco seems to be holding his own, but I know what Elio can be like. Despite his slender frame, he is stronger than most men, and his infamous rage often makes him capable of terrible things.

“Stop it! Enzo, Luca!” Grazia shouts as she tries to get a hold of Elio’s arm.

He flings her off like a rag doll, and she crumples to the floor with a wounded cry, a cascade of little beads from her wedding gown scattering across the floor and making little pinging sounds.

Eager to halt the fight before someone gets seriously injured, I rush forward and try to catch Elio’s wrist in my grasp.

He is blind with fury, something I have seen before many times. It’s not likely that he will recognize anyone in this state, other than the person that he is trying to destroy.

With a shout of fury, Elio wrenches his wrist from my grasp and drives his fist into Marco’s face yet again. Marco groans and scrambles back, trying to protect himself from Elio’s continued attack.

“Elio! For the love of God, stop it!” I shout in desperation.

Elio freezes with his fist lifted to punch Marco yet again. He slowly straightens up from where he is hunched over Marco and turns to look at me.

Meeting his gaze for the first time in seven years is surreal.

I never expected to see Elio again. I am not prepared to be faced with him like this.

Time has been kind to Elio. When last I saw him, he was just turning into a man, just losing the softness of youth and still growing into his lean, lanky frame. The man turning to face me now is in the prime of his life, powerful and sleek like a panther wearing a suit.

His black eyes meet my own, and something primal flares to life in their depths. There’s a curl of his thick, dark hair hanging over his forehead, and I resist the urge to reach out and sweep it back into place.

He has filled out over the past seven years, muscles standing out on his frame that were not there when last we saw one another. He is still deceptively slim, but now there is a restrained power evident in his every movement.

As I stare at him silently, he scrapes the hair off his forehead with those slender, beautiful hands that used to caress my body, wrap themselves around my throat, and slap my skin while we made love.

He hasn’t changed a bit, and yet he’s changed entirely. I have no idea what to do next.

“Kate,” he purrs at me, stalking closer. His dress shoes click against the tile floor. He adjusts his sleeves with small, neat motions, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel like prey, pinned by his gimlet glare.

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