Page 97 of Sinful Bride

“You came home with a storm cloud over your head.” Daphne nudges me to the loveseat and presses me down into it. “Now, hold the sweet little baby and tell her all about it.”

I sigh. I’m powerless against these women.

Daphne also might be onto something. I have to admit, holding someone so tiny and soft and warm who blinks up at me with nothing but pure trust and wonder… It’s doing something for my nerves. Taty blows a spit bubble, pops it with a squeal, and reaches for my face.

Dammit.

I do feel better.

“Alright, malysh. Here’s the deal. Daddy has a few idiots riding his ass?—”

“Language!”

I roll my eyes and try again. “Your grandpa is a very, very naughty man. And I’m just trying to keep you and all your tiny little toes safe from the big, bad wolf.” I pinch the tip of her onesie-covered foot and feel myself smile. It grows when I realize she’s trying to mimic me—her mouth curves in something pretty damn close to a smile. “He keeps saying, ‘Little pig! Little pig! Let me in!’ And I keep telling him to go shove it up his?—”

“And now, we’re going to discuss dinner plans.” Daphne gracefully slides into the conversation and cuts off my Mother Goose: Bratva Edition retelling. “What are you hungry for?”

“You.” I tug her arm just enough to steal a sound kiss from her soft lips. “And maybe pizza.”

“You can have pizza for dinner.” She nuzzles my face and whispers in my ear, “And me for dessert.”

Daphne steals her own kiss before sliding back off to go place the order.

“Come, my daughter.” I tuck Taty close with one arm and push myself off the couch with the other. I do still need to get some work done in the office, but I think it will be far more productive with my little assistant with me. “It’s time for you to start learning the family business. Step One: how to crush our enemies like painted eggs.”

“Special Agent Smithson is here to see you, sir.”

I nod at Jack and slide the paperwork I’ve been reviewing back inside my desk. “Send him in.”

“Before I do, sir…” Jack steps inside and makes sure the door is securely shut before he walks over to me. “I believe he’s wearing a wire.”

“Really?”

“I noticed him readjusting his tie, then his shirt. More than what’s normal, unless he’s developed an allergy to cotton.”

“Did you see the wire itself?”

“No, sir. But…”

I look up at the older man. “But?”

Jack shrugs. “Times have changed, I know. I just remember how itchy the tape could get.”

“You wore a wire?”

“Tried my hand at a few sting operations, sir. Didn’t much care for it.”

“For the feds?”

“Oh, no.” Jack scrunches his face in disgust. “Never them. Family to family; we needed to keep our own in line. Can’t have too many car bombs going off at once, and all that.”

I hide my chuckle behind a sniffle and a cough. Sometimes, I forget this unassuming, past-his-prime gentleman was once in the IRA. “Thank you, Jack. I’ll see him now.”

“As you wish.”

The apprehension in his gait tells me he’s concerned, which I appreciate. It’s good to have a loyal assistant who understands how things are supposed to be run.

I just can’t tell him—yet—that I’ve been banking on Smithson showing up wearing a wire.

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