Page 25 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

“Divorced once. No children. Right bloodline.” He smiles tightly, lifting only one side of his face. “Who knew that sort of thing came in so handy in this day and age? I’m a better businessman than a romantic, and I know a good opportunity when I see one.”

I nod, understanding that all too well. At least we’re both being practical about this.

I am still lost in my thoughts, keeping my eyes down, trying to get a grip on myself.

“Are you nervous?” he asks when I struggle to make eye contact.

“Something like that.”

The waiter arrives to offer us wine options, but Thaddeus interrupts him and orders us whatever is most expensive, verbatim. I get the sense Salvatore is footing the bill for this meal.

The first course of the dinner is brought out, and my stomach stirs uneasily. I try not to look at it. I had a hard time even eating home-cooked meals after Vinny died. The occasional greasy bag of fast food kept me alive, the only thing I could stomach for a while. Being served the full fine dining experience, hand-cooked by a chef, makes my heart beat double in my chest.

“I suppose we should be practical about this, shouldn’t we?” Thaddeus asks, popping his fingers one by one. “Tell me about yourself.”

I stare into my plate, desperately trying to recall anything about myself that’s still true.

“Oh, you know,” I mumble, trying for a smile, “long walks on the beach and all…”

He doesn’t smile in return, his eyes dim and expectant as they stare into me.

“Right,” he finally says, as if I’ve missed the mark, “I mean, more practically, your family’s medical history, your personal finances, your sexual history, any circumstances I should know about. I know Sal’s type, and I know he can be crafty when he has to be. I don’t appreciate having something pulled over on me. As for the rest of your…preferences.” He waves his hand. “I’m sure we’ll get to the minutiae in time.”

I feel stupid for misunderstanding, forcing myself to chew through the appetizer.

I prattle off the limited facts of my family’s medical history. Thaddeus seems to approve of how dull it all is, nodding to himself, not caring that I can barely string two sentences together.

“And your sexual history?” he prompts again, so casually.

“None,” I mutter.

“Right,” he laughs, lowers his already murmur-soft voice. “Did Salvatore give you a checklist you’re supposed to read me?”

His distrust makes my knuckles whiten around my fork and knife.

“The way I see it,” I start, my voice finally picking up, “you’re getting too good of a deal to turn me down no matter what my sexual experience is like. Why would I bother lying about it? Salvatore has plenty of family members he could make this same arrangement with. If you were going to have any hang-ups over the basic facts, you would have already discussed those with him. Not me.”

His lips press into a white line as he regards me.

My phone buzzes in my bag, and I slide it into my lap where I can check it. A text message from Nico pops up on the screen:

Missing me yet?

I type back a hasty:

No.

I ignore the flicker of excitement that sparks in my stomach and distract myself with the next course. It’s good, of course it’s good, yet it feels like sawdust in my mouth. I stare at my husband-to-be, watching his mouth moving and chewing, while I am locked in a memory of Vinny handholding me through his love of all things culinary, teaching me how to appreciate the things I always turned my nose up at: black truffles and foie gras and roe. I clutch my ice water in a vise, struggling to remember the questions being asked of me, when my phone vibrates again.

Well, I miss you.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but it’s a timely distraction from my own spiraling thoughts. I grab onto Nico’s distraction like a ledge, keeping me from falling further and further into my own head.

I miss my panties.

You didn’t need them. He was never gonna make you wet.

“Are you distracted, Ms. St. Clair?”

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