Page 39 of Mafia King's Surprise Baby

Staring into his eyes that are wide open with terror, I grab a fistful of his hair and lift his head, his torso.

“For Bianca,” I say softly, like a last sacrament.

With a deft flick of my wrist, I flip his head forward then back, welcoming the sickening crunch of his neck breaking. The fracture will be consistent with a fall—I’ll have my men place his body at the foot of some stairs, make it look like he fell whileinebriated.

I send a text to one of my family’scaposthen climb back up, where Mattia has been watching the show. Thecapowill get his crew to handle this. At least this way, this dead fucker here won’t ever get to hurt her again. When she’s found, I’ll make sure this alliance is broken, come what may.

“We need to find your sister,” I say as I brush past. “And Mattia? When we find her, she’s marrying me.”

All this madness has to stop. Now.

No one has protected Bianca so far, and I’m going to take on that role.

I’ll scorch the Earth fighting for the woman I love. Bianca Bonucci is mine. Let anyone try to defy me and they’ll see how far I’ll go. Even war. I’m not afraid.

Try me, fucking Albanians.

Chapter 11

Bianca

“Relax,” my companion whispers in my ear. “They’re going to love you.”

I breathe in deep. Easy for him to say. It’s his world, the high society he walks in with ease. People respect him here. I’m not bothered by how he earned this respect, though—tonight, I’m just grateful I have him with me. His hand on my back, just below my shoulder blades, is a welcome balm and infuses a surge of courage in my blood.

I bite my lip and risk a glance up at the man accompanying me. His features are sharp, borderline hard, cheekbones harsh slashes across his pale face. His black hair isn’t all stiff and spiky today. The locks have been left softer, a few of them brushing over his browbone to fall into his wide brown eyes.

I shake my head and laugh softly. In his tuxedo and with such a foppish, romantic look, Hiro Sanada could be cosplaying as an anime prince tonight and no one would deny it.

“Ready?” he asks.

I breathe in again and nod. His hand presses on my back as he urges me forward, toward the man standing in the middle of the glittering ballroom and holding court at this glamorous event.

“Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,” Hiro says as we approach.

Pierre Foucault, the French ambassador in Tokyo, turns to us with a brilliant smile.

“Monsieur Sanada. Quel plaisir !” he states. “And who’s this vision of beauty with you?”

“Allow me to introduce Bérénice Picard, a friend from Paris,” Hiro says.

“Enchanté,” Pierre Foucault replies, dropping a soft kiss on my knuckles.

“And you are originally from Paris itself, Mademoiselle Picard?” the ambassador’s wife asks.

I smile and gulp softly. Here it is, my cue to slip into my persona irrevocably. “Guilty as charged. And it’s Madame Picard, actually.”

“Oh, is your husband around tonight?” she continues, still in French.

My smile freezes.

“My husband passed away last year, sadly,” I reply, voice lowered.

“My sympathies.”

Her gaze slips to my belly clearly protruding in the front of the flowy Empire-waisted dress I chose for this gala. She’s too polite to ask, though. I provide the explanation nevertheless. After all, it’s part of why we came here tonight, me and Hiro, to seal my position in this society.

“My husband had cancer. Before he…” I pause, inhale a shakybreath, then force a smile on my trembling lips. “IVF, you know?”

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