Page 39 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

He has something in his arms, some kind of clothes hidden in a designer bag, but before I can even ask him what it is, he throws it aside and marches right toward me.

I hold my ground.

He stops an inch away from me, the invisible barrier of our agreement still between us.

“Don’t play games with me, girl,” he warns me lowly.

“You started them. Don’t play games you can’t win,” I challenge him right back.

I see him wrestling with his urge to put his hands on me. I revel in his uncertainty for a few moments, milking it for everything I can—and then have mercy on him, bringing his hands to my waist as he pulls us body to body.

“Tell me I was right,” he says lowly. “Tell me you don’t want to marry him. I want to hear you say it.”

“You were right,” I whisper back, “I don’t want to marry him.”

Before Nico can catch me in another kiss, I hold him back and look him in the eyes.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to.”

He stares at me, bewildered. His hands start to fall away, but I grab them again, desperate for him to hear me.

“You act like this is all my choice, but it’s not. It’s your choice, too. You could back off. You could leave Marcel alone, take whatever offer Sal makes you. If you want me so goddamn bad, all you have to do is pick me over this ridiculous vendetta.”

I feel Nico’s answer in the cold air that creeps between us before he even speaks.

“I can’t do that,” he finally says.

“You can’t even say that and look me in the eye,” I scoff. Disappointment lands like an arrow in my chest. I step back away from him. “Well, I can’t do this. I made a deal, Nico. With Salvatore. And I’m not letting you use me against Marcel. You proved your point last night. Congratulations. You were right, if that matters so much to you. But all you’ve done is manage to make this all just a little bit worse for me.”

He doesn’t answer me.

He drops the bag of clothes at my feet—it’s just enough to get me home, a simple tank top and pants, with a leather jacket with a collar that zips high on the throat to hide the love bites all over me.

I dress, trying not to feel guilty. It’s always the smarter choice to resist the devil on your shoulder—but that doesn’t mean it’s the easier one.

On the way home, Nico says only one thing to me the entire time:

“You’re not the one who died, you know.”

11

Nico

Hot lights blaze down into the ring. The crowd teems tonight, swarming out of focus just beyond my vision. I swipe the sweat off my face as I pace the edge of the cage, eyes locked on my opponent. I watch his every step just as he watches mine. The fucker is built like a bull and he likes to charge like one, too. I don’t know what kind of gear these guys are on these days, muscles all swollen out like twisted-up balloon animals.

Muscle is good for a fight, and street smarts can give you an edge, but rage—that’s the real secret sauce.

I haven’t seen Ava St. Clair in days, and I’m going to make this man pay for every hour between me and her.

I promised Ava that I would leave her alone if I was wrong. I wasn’t wrong, so instead, the girl hid. She puts a locked door between us and dodges all my late-night texts. Hell, maybe it’sfor the best. I bet her cuntstillhurts, but if she were smart, she’d let me kiss it better.

The charge comes and I weave away, then follow up once his momentum burns out. We lock arms, trying to take each other down. He’s got weight on me, but I have leverage. I sling him over on his own size, tripping him up and getting him on the ground. He goes down hard. He gets his hands around his face like a shield, lets me burn out my energy on useless hits.

I should have known Ava would ask me to lay off her brother. It’s the one simple thing that I just can’t give her. Non-negotiable. It’s not about my pride. I could swallow that for her, if she asked. It’s about something bigger than me, bigger than her, and it presses all around me all the time. I feel it in the eyes that are staring at me now, shadows in the crowd watching the fight with folded hands and straight faces.

I don’t always make the rules. Not anymore.

There’s only one way I get this boot off my throat, and that’s through Marcel. Like it or not.

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