Page 105 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

The thought itches at the back of my mind constantly, urging me to unblock his number and make him explain, to hear his side of it all. I can only imagine what Marcel would say, how I would lap up any story from him, no matter if it was the truth or not.Just as Thaddeus slept soundly through Nico slipping into our bedroom and pleasuring me to the point of shaking, he sleeps, utterly oblivious, through my shaking tears and crying night after night.

I go to sleep and I dream about Nico. I wake up and I think about Nico.

I feel his absence as keenly as I felt Vinny’s—except I’m not mourning Nico, I tell myself. I’m just mourning the man I thought he was.

And I am trying—really trying—to make things work with Thaddeus now.

He assumes my moodiness has something to do with the attack on Marcel, as if I am some frail, hysterical Victorian lady tied up in a corset. I don’t know how he hasn’t caught on to my pregnancy, except that he just doesn’t pay very much attention to me at all. It’s almost commendable how much he must want this position, putting up with me like this day and night. I’m starting to be sick of myself.

It’s still early when I stumble my way into the bathroom. Usually, I can make it down the hall. The house has no shortage of pointless bathrooms I can hide away in to be sick, but this morning, I wake up violently nauseous, and I know I’m not going to make it. I retch into the toilet, mere feet away from Thaddeus. The floorboards creak. He hears me as my stomach roils again and another pitiful amount of vomit comes up. I feel so awful for how little food is actually in my stomach.

“What are you doing?” he asks, tired. “Are you sick?”

My burning throat works around the words, through stomach acid and last night’s dinner.

“No,” I say, forcing a smile through the stinging tears biting at my eyes, reaching for any lie to feed him. “I’m trying to watch my figure.”

“Oh,” Thaddeus says, too pleasantly surprised, his voice warm and proud. “Good for you. I didn’t want to have to say anything.”

The happy reception of my make-believe eating disorder burns me up like an inferno, and I’d be more upset with him if I could breathe without smelling stomach acid. He’s probably so happy that I’m trying to be his stupidly thin but perfectly busty wife.

But I have to play nice.I have to. This is survival mode now, and if I want to convince Thaddeus to pass off this baby as his own, then playing nice is part of the deal.

I buy new clothes. My baby bump and growing breasts demand it. I’m stunned by how much they’ve changed over mere weeks, and I shop for things that will fit and better hide my new body—but also things that will please him. Expensive designer brands that are more a statement than a style.

I’m finally glad Thaddeus wanted me to be a little modest. It will buy me just a little more time, and that is what I keep convincing myself I need—just a little more time. I ask to go with him to his dinners, and on his arm, I practice a demure and flattered smile as I toy with old business tycoons and city planners.

By the end of the week, I have scheduled an appointment at a spa, for me, and an appointment at the salon, for him. I leave thesalon with tears in my eyes and a platinum blonde balayage on my hair, just how he likes it.

I am finally everything Thaddeus listed—blonde, busty tradwife material. The boob job even came free. And I can cement his place high within the family order within six months flat, if he agrees to one tiny term and condition:

He has to accept my baby as his own, and never tell anyone the truth.

I am waiting for the moment, waiting for that perfect opportunity to pitch my deal, reading his mood like the weather, needing sunny skies and a forgiving breeze.

I find my chance on the heels of a business dinner. Thaddeus uses me to flirt my way into a multimillion-dollar business deal for the Mori family with the very interested Mr. Godfrey, with only the subtle suggestion that one day, I will be invited to a threesome with him and his foreign model wife, who has taken a liking to me.

I don’t know if I have to actually accept that invitation, but for now, it doesn’t matter. I have more pressing problems than some future sex party that requires legal documents and signed NDAs. Thaddeus drank through the dinner—which I suspect is how most of these business deals get done, everyone at the table drinking themselves past the point of good common sense—and he’s drunk and happy when we make it back home.

“They agreed. They agreed, Ava. Ten million, easy, right off the top.”

For the first time, Thaddeus takes my face in his hands and kisses me, the booze on his breath making his hands heavy and clumsy.

My whole body revolts at the touch of his lips, but I force myself to stay still, to let his tongue push futilely into my mouth. He careens us toward the bed, more a controlled descent than an intended destination as we fall into bed together. He laughs happily, hair falling into his eyes.

He crawls over me, kissing me again.

“Done fucking deal!” he yells again, with the same drunken enthusiasm as a man whose team just won the Superbowl.

I control my breathing, staring over his shoulder, trying my hardest to play along and act like I can stomach this. Like my whole body doesn’t want torun. It feels wrong and I don’t want it, but I take his face back and kiss him again. He pushes his hands up my dress, but I grab his wrists and stop him.

“Wait,” I whisper, the fear thickening my voice. “Wait, Thaddeus. I need to…I need to tell you something.”

He hums his question, the drink glossy in his eyes.

“You want this to work, right?” I ask him. “Just as much as I do.”

“Fuck yeah, I want this to work. You and I, we’re gonna do some amazing things together, Ava.”

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