Page 16 of Twins for the Mafia Heir

“Daddy,” she mumbles blearily, “are you back?”

“I’m back, dove,” I tell her. “I’m home.” To prove it, I plant three kisses on her forehead, our sacred tradition.

“Don’t leave again…”

Every day, I try my best not to lie to my daughter. But some truths I have to bend so I don’t break my own heart. “I’ll be here a while yet,” I say, whichshouldbe true if I’m to marry a hostage. And speaking of…

“So will Raleigh,” I say as I lay her in her bed facing away from me. “She’s staying with us. I thought you’d like to know.”

How I’m supposed to explain this marriage to her is a problem for tomorrow, when all of us are more awake. Hopefully I’ll have found the right words by then.

“I like her…” Sidony muses.

I comb through her hair with my fingers, then part it into three strands and braid it steadily. “What do you like about her?” I ask as I work.

“She’s… pretty… n’... she listened… n’...”

Whatever else she thinks of Raleigh isn’t being said tonight. I hum her bedtime song as I finish her braid, then tuck one of her plushies- her rabbit tonight, I think- under her arm as a companion. Finally, I pull her quilt up to her chin. With that, the spell is complete.

If only it worked more than half the time.

I linger for a moment over my daughter’s sleeping form, seriously considering sleeping in here instead of my own room. I’d have to fight a dozen plush animals for space, but that would be fine.

For months after Madeleine’s death, Sidony and I couldn’t fall asleep without each other. There are plenty of nights I still struggle without that closeness.

Sidony has stuffed animals to hold now, at least.

In the end, I return to my room. Raleigh is exactly where I left her, laying across the bed with her sock-covered feet dangling off the edge. Hopefully she doesn’t mind sleeping in her socks, because I’m not pulling them off when it’s early December and she’s not used to this cold. I pull the comforter back as far as I can, then scoop her up, carrying her like a bride instead of a preschooler. When I lay her back down lengthwise, I make sure her head is cradled in one of my pillows. Then I pull the comforter back up, all the way to her chin.

My tasks finally complete, and the people I’m responsible for put to bed, I stagger back to my closet for my own pair of pajamas, then collapse once more in the armchair by the fire. It’s three in the morning, and after what feels like days of being wide awake, my eyes are at last closing of their own volition.

Turning my head for one last look at the hostage tucked into my bed, I let them fall.

Chapter 9

Emma

When I wake, I have no idea where I am.

The Warwick house is all clean modern lines and minimalist aesthetics and floor length windows.

This room is straight out of a period piece. There’s elaborate molding decorating every square foot of the wood-paneled walls, even framing the ceiling! Tasseled Persian rugs cover the hardwood floor. And an honest to god fireplace sits along one wall, with a poker and everything.

It’s the chair in front of the fireplace that finally sparks a hazy memory. Me, sitting on the edge of the bed I’m now laying in. A man, sitting in that chair, who didn’t look at me at all.

The chair is empty now. So where the hell is Achilles not-Warwick?

I sit up, which is immediately a mistake. Despite the fire going in the fireplace, the room iscoldcompared to what I’m used to. Yet my feet feel weirdly stuffy.

The light from the leaded windows tells me it’s late morning. Through a cracked door that must lead to a bathroom, I can hear water running in a sink. And is that dim hum the sound of an electric razor?

As if on cue, both sounds cut off. Achilles himself comes in from the bathroom, naked from the waist up despite the chill with freshly trimmed stubble. He pauses when he sees I’m awake, but can’t seem to think of anything to say.

And suddenly… I’m not cold anymore.

He’s got the physique of a swimmer, long and lean, with a narrow waist and broad shoulders. There are no tan lines in his bronze skin, not even around his hips where his pajama pants are sitting dangerously low.

I’m not just warm anymore. I might be coming down with a fever. Do you need booster shots for anything before traveling to the UK? I have no idea, but it’s too late for me now.

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