Page 21 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

Salvatore cuts in smoothly, “You all know Marcel, as you know the respect he’s earned through his years of service to you all. But sometimes, as Nico says, service isn’t enough. To amend his point—and I do agree that he has one—we’ve taken steps to bring Marcel into the family properly. Before you make any decisions,you should be aware that Marcel’s sister, Ava, is arranged to marry Thaddeus Mori.”

There’s some reaction to the news, some ripple that runs through the room. Approval, disapproval—it doesn’t matter. I can’t hear it. I’m reeling, off balance, my own thoughts a freight train, fueled by flame and dark as soot.

Ava.

I was looking for the left hook, and he hit me with a right.

I look down and realize my hands are fists.

“Last night, Nico told us he was concerned about Marcel’s unofficial place in the family, and Ava happens to be in a good position for a marriage. The union will make the family stronger, more whole. Marcel and Ava have been two of us for a long time now, and it’s past time that we recognized that in an official capacity. Thaddeus and Ava have my blessing.”

I’m not listening to the spiel, to all the double meanings Salvatore is laying on thick. Suddenly, I don’t give a damn about Marcel. I don’t care which chair I sit in, who or what I’m in charge of managing around here now.

There’s only one thought that has my head in a vise—Ava belongs to me.

I had the girl under my thumb for just one night. That was all it took to know that I want her under the rest of me.

Paranoia seeps through my thoughts, sends me spiraling down deep rabbit holes of what-ifs.

Does the girl just get off on thwarting me, so much so that she’s willing to wad her whole future up and dunk it into the trash if it means I don’t get what I want? From stealing my keys straight to stealing my position within the family...the girl moves quick, I’ll give her that.

But something about it itches at the back of my skull.

Ava faced down the barrel of a gun with a glower and tried to go toe to toe with a crowd of men twice her size. So why the hell would she let herself be pushed around like a little pawn on somebody else’s chess board?

Maybe Salvatore wasn’t the one I should have worried about underestimating.

I barely hear the rest of the meeting. The room swims in opinions, the family giving relentless back-and-forths, prattling off their pointless concerns like the peasantry that finally has the attention of the king. I don’t care now. I don’t give a fuck. I called the damn meeting and I can barely hear it, can’t listen to anything that isn’t the possessive howl itching under my skin.

Of all the things I thought were going to get in my way, I never thought it’d beher.

Someone is talking to me, the words landing like leaves on the surface of a lake, while I’m down here at the bottom, drowning.

I push back my chair, bringing everyone to a surprised hush.

“Nico?”

“You’ve wasted enough of my time already, Sal,” I growl. “I don’t have any more to give you. We’ll all end up back here again once you realize this is a Band-Aid on a fucking bullet hole.”

I march out the door, leaving the circus and its grinning clowns behind. Cecilia and I catch each other’s gazes as I go, her eyes glimmering shrewdly as she tries to read me. I ignore the stare and put the room behind me. My path runs straightforward and steady. I reach Ava’s room, the plain dark door at the end of the hall. The doorknob twists in my grip, and this time, I open her bedroom up. The bed is half-made, the TV paused.

She’s not here.

From the shelves overhead, I’m watched by the dead button eyes of a few dusty stuffed animals.

I step into her space, curious.

There’s a downturned picture on the nightstand, and glass shards scatter as I lift it up. It’s a picture of her and Vincent Mori. Ava hides half her face from the camera, peeking up from his shoulder and blushing hot, while Vincent laughs and takes the selfie. The cracked glass spiderwebs across their faces, and a stain darkens the picture’s corner, like it laid in something.

I chuck the glass shards into the trash bin next to her desk.

I dig through her dresser drawers, open up her closet. There’s a heap of old clothes piled up at the bottom. Frumpy, oversized sweaters and skirts. The kind of clothes she was wearing in that picture.

Suddenly, the closet door snaps shut in front of me. Ava wedges herself between me and the door. The girl’s dressed in nothing more than a skimpy set of pink PJs, silky short-shorts that show her thighs and a tight little tank top cupping her breasts. A basket of laundry spills across the floor in the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” she demands, trying to push me back.

She can’t move me an inch.

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