Page 36 of Pregnant By the Mafia Boss

“But it’s one you like,” I breathe into her ear, weaving a hand around her belly, inhaling the glorious scent of her hair. “Now where are the files?”

Her office is in immaculate condition, and if you didn’t have a trained eye, you wouldn’t know that we had torn the place apart only a few weeks back. My men and I were very good. Only I knew because of the dent in the wall we left. I glare at it now as Fiona steps out of my embrace, removing the only thing we didn’t touch from the wall.

It’s a small wooden framed picture of a warehouse. She hands it to me with a bland expression. “This is what you wanted. Here.”

“This?” I stare at the old, dilapidated warehouse in the photo, tension riding thick in the air as I think about the fact Fiona might have duped me again. Thoughts of wanting to cut off her air supply enter my mind, but then I remember she’s carrying our baby.

“Are you serious?” I demand, peering closely at the photo again. Tears glisten in Fiona’s eyes.

“Yes. I’m not trying to be funny. This is what Luca gave me before he died.”

Confusion overtakes me as I study the picture. “This can’t be it,” I expel with an exasperated sigh.

“Yes. It can be. Because this is all Luca left in the box.” A liar can sniff out another liar, but this isn’t what Fiona is. She’s telling me the truth. “He didn’t give me files; he simply gave me this picture. Again, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she says lightly.

“Okay,” I say to her slowly. “I think I understand what your father did here. He’s an even smarter man, than I already knew him to be.”

At the mention of her father, Fiona bites her bottom lip, attempting to hide the quiver, the tears streaming down her face.

“Hey, look at me,” I say hoarsely, wanting to set her mind at ease. I put my fingers under her chin, making her face me. Her beautiful emerald eyes, clutching on to mine for dear life. “Your fathertriedto protect you. Now I can and will. Jamie Bergin or any other man won’t touch a hair on your pretty little head. I promise you,” I tell her, stroking my fingers through the threads of her silky long tresses, her mouth providing an open invite, but I choose intimacy, not seduction, a compelling urge to keep her safe washing over me.

Fiona’s face remains puffy, and tear streaked as she shakes her head vehemently. “I didn’t want anything to do with my father’s lifestyle,” she confesses with a sniffle. “And he couldn’t protect me either, and he was in this mob game longer than you. How can you do it?” she asks doubtfully, her voice scratchy.

Placing hands on her shoulders, I dip to kiss her mouth. “How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That he’s been in the mob game longer than the Bratva? My father reigned before I did—and so did my grandfather, but not here, in Russia. Consider it ten times worse conditions than that of America.”

“Oh.” Fiona doesn’t move from her position, but for reasons unknown her doubting me is bothersome.

“You don’t know of my ways, but you’ll come to understand,” I soothe.

“I guess it’s been a steep learning curve.” A gentle smile curves on my mouth as I chuckle at her lightheartedness.

“Yes. It has, but you’re passing the test with flying colors. We can’t run from what we are, Fiona. You’re part of this life as well. Your mother knew,” I remind her, the light of realization coming on for her.

“I know, and I’m sorry for doubting you. I’m going to have to embrace it.” As her watery smile breaks, I drop my mouth to hers, wanting to kiss away her pain and show her how good it can be. I do my best, letting my passion shine through as she yields to me.

“You’re the mother of my child. I’m not letting anything happen to you, but the way your father did things is not the wayI want to protect you,” I tell her, delivering the harsh truth in a croaky voice.

“Okay. I trust you to take care of things. I’m just fucked up inside about things,” she explains, choking out her reply as I hold her in the middle of the room with the warehouse picture in hand.

“You belong to me, Fiona, and that means I take care of my property. You’re going to be an Utkin now. From one mob family to another.”

Fiona melts in my arms, accepting her fate. “Seems that way.”

As we untangle from our embrace, the beep of a text message comes through.

ANDREI:I have a Bergin update.Giving me a puzzled look, Fiona stares at me.

“Who is it?”

“Andrei.” I stare at the MMS of Bergin’s slumped body behind a Chicago dumpster on the Southside, grimacing. We might have just started a Chicago street war with the Irish we don’t want, but I couldn’t let Bergin live. I meant what I said to Fiona.

“Tell me. What’s going on?”

No. She doesn’t need to see this. Not with the baby. I offer her solace. “Nothing. Just a crucial update, and reassurance that everything has been handled.”

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