Page 35 of Pregnant By the Mafia Boss

Scoffing, I shake my head, the light show of traffic lights, holding us up from around the block of Fiona’s apartment. “Let me clear this up for you. He wouldn’t have taken the files and let that be it. He would have killed you.”

My Bluetooth interrupts and I see that it’s Andrei. “Yes?” I answer, turning into Fiona’s quiet street.

“Detour?” Andrei quips.

“Yes. To the files. Go. It will be fine,” I tell him confidently, not seeing anybody tailing us.

“’Kay. Call me if you need anything.”

“You just concentrate on handling Bergin.” Hanging up, we park, as Fiona expels an exhausted sigh.

“It’s already been organized; I can assure you.”

“Good.” Hanging up, I don’t expect Fiona to say anything else, but she does, looking at me with a soft smile.

“You saved my life. I owe you,” she mutters, tears brimming in her eyes. I curl my fingers into a fist, running my knuckles along her jawline. This is where Fiona’s naivety is almost endearing.

“Nobody owes anybody anything. I would have gotten the files anyway.” I give her a glowing smile, half of my face in the moonlight, the other in the shadows. “But thank you for making both our lives easier. Remind me to get you a gun. No wife of mine will be left unprotected,” I declare with clarity.

Mild alarm reads on her face, but she nods as I quiz her. “The files are in your apartment?” I say, disturbed that my men and I missed the oversight right in front of our nose.

How could they be? We turned the place upside down in search of them, coming up short. “Yes. The file is in my apartment,” she repeats numbly.

File. Not files. Hmm. Maybe it’s all one large file and not many.My mind presses forward, wanting more details, but I figure I’m going to find out soon enough. “Then this should be a quick and easy process. Stay there,” I tell her, getting out ofthe car first, my gun cocked as I round the car, eyeballing the neighborhood.

It’s quiet, and all I can see are the dim amber lights from some apartment windows, and the houses that do exist on the street have their lights off. If we hadn’t gotten to Bergin, and he’s anything like me, he would be working on a plan to infiltrate enemy lines. He’s relentless when he wants something—as all good mobsters are.

Fiona’s apartment is located on the top end of Chicago’s suburbs, but of late this area has experienced a spate of burglaries. I know the thieves personally—a series of smaller gangs looking to establish their street cred. My soldiers are paid handsomely to keep their ears pressed into the dirty asphalt. Assured the coast is clear, I bring Fiona out of the car, beckoning with my hand, her eyes wide like those of a scared lamb when I guide her from the car.

“Is it safe?” she asks, voice trembling as I hurry her inside.

Smirking through the dark, I get her in through the door, the hairs on the back of my neck bristling as a young man and his girlfriend giggle through the lobby. It pays to be diligent, because there’s not about to be a repeat of what happened right under my nose again. I watch as Fiona holds her breath until they pass by with a polite wave. She keeps her cool, but I keep my hand on the inside of my jacket where a hot ticket to hell awaits should either of them decide it was a good idea to be a mob insider. Once they pass, I give her the green light.

“You’re with me. You can relax now, but if you weren’t—” I shrug casually, not wanting to give her a hair’s breadth of escaping again.

We reach her apartment on the second floor. As she slots the key in the lock, my breath grows shallow. Who knew a hottemptress from a nightclub would be the ticket to more power for the Bratva.

Once inside, I flick on the light to her spacious apartment, now understanding that it’s likely Daddy paid for it. As he should, and I take the split-second decision as I’m minutes away from having the files of my dreams in my hands, I might as well give her a heads-up on the area she lives in.

“There’s been a spate of burglaries around here lately. Have you noticed?”

Fiona’s surprised face amuses me. “What? No. I’ve been living in this building for years and it’s always been safe,” she declares as I follow her past the kitchen to a second bedroom my men and I thoroughly trashed only to find nothing.

“That’s because the thieves are better than good and haven’t been caught yet. They’re not coming up on police radars because of this insider knowledge I’m giving you.” I wink, feeling it’s only right since she’s about to give away something that will change Bratva’s fate forever. “I should know, I’ve hired the Ramirez brothers and the Angels to do work for me. A form of subcontracting, if you will,” I tell her, giving her some insight into Bratva business.

She pauses for a minute, her emerald eyes holding a glint of steel in them. I thought they might hold sadness at the revelation, but Fiona’s proving to be a wild card of surprises. Maybe she has just the right amount of Marino DNA to last as an Utkin wife. “Sounds about right.”

“Yes, it is. Some of your wealthier neighbors hiding out here in the penthouse have become a little too complacent about going away on their fancy, little European holidays. And if there’s anything I know about—it’s home invasion. It’s how I got my start,” I admit in a chipper tone, feeling freer about revealingmy past. She’s to be my wife, so a little harmless information might make her feel better about the marriage.

“Why am I not surprised?” she peppers back as we step further into the study, the room overturned and trashed from my team’s last visit.

“Yes. I did. Me and our Russian gang became excellent petty thieves on these gritty Chicago streets, climbing by the skin of our nails through the Bratva ranks.”

“Make sense, Chicago is mob country,” she mutters, but I cut the small talk wanting the files in my hand before I keep going. Who knows if Fiona’s good enough to flip the situation on me, only for this to be a setup. She’s already shown me she’s a cunning player in the game. I circle around her, keeping a watchful eye on her.

“Sure is. It’s why breaking into your apartment proved to be so easy,” I remind her.

She sighs, expelling a hefty sigh. “You’re cut from a wicked cloth,”

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