Page 56 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

“I’ve already got an angle on the sister,” I say, the lie coming fast and smooth through the rage in my throat. “Donotfuck with the progress I’ve already made, or you will set us all back, and I’ll skin you just to make the world’s ugliest art piece out of your worthless hide.”

I drop Angel to the ground, where he rasps and heaves, trying to breathe through his bruised throat. He reaches a hand up as if I might help him.

I step past it and leave him sprawled there on the ground.

“I want you to look at the books tonight,” I tell him. “See which one of ourfriendsbet against me tonight.”

Whoever makes a killing tonight, they’re the ones who orchestrated this. The one sending a message and raking in the profit along the way. I drag myself forward one step at a time, marching numbly toward a fight I know I can’t win.

16

Ava

Sometimes, the tension at a family dinner is more filling than the main course could ever be. I enjoy an evening of Thaddeus enduring long, judgmental looks from my brother, and a series of interrogating questions that would border on outright rude if they had come from anyone other than Contessa Mori. Being the don’s wife, she gets away with her pointed, stabbing questions as long as she asks them with a bright and charming smile. Without ever touching the knife on her napkin, Tessa dissects Thaddeus like a cadaver. His past marriage, his schooling, his finances, his political leanings.

Finally, Salvatore pushes the wine bottle toward Tessa and asks, “Do you want to just start waterboarding him and save the time?”

Tessa smiles like it’s a joke, though I don’t think she rules out the possibility.

Even Cecilia, who is usually the busybody of the table, is forced to take a backseat to Tessa’s merciless scrutiny. For some reason, though, the old woman’s gaze is on me, sharp and inspecting, and I can’t shake the feeling that she is staringintome.

I don’t know why.

Maybe she senses what I do—that the man sitting next to me is not the Thaddeus Mori who sat across from me at that first meeting. This version of Thaddeus is charming, quick-witted, and he smiles at me so often, it almost makes me uncomfortable—as if we already have a deep connection and a hundred inside jokes. He tells the family the only thing I confessed to him during our first dinner was that I liked long walks on the beach, and joke or not, he’s already looking forward to taking me to the Maldives so I can enjoy some proper beaches.

This is the first I’m hearing about it.

Marcel stares at me over the table. We both know I’ve never been to a beach, and that I don’t have a passport.

Under Salvatore’s watchful gaze, Thaddeus is on his best and most invested behavior. The dinner goes shockingly well, and by the end of it, even Tessa seems bitter that she couldn’t unravel him. He asks me to walk him to the door.

The rest of the family follows. Hands are shaken, smiles and polite words exchanged. Marcel’s grip is white-knuckled on the man’s hand, even when his smile is brilliant. We step out into the low afternoon light, purple touching the edges of the treetops.

“Well, I think it’s my turn to find a ride home,” Thaddeus says. “Fair’s fair.”

“Isn’t that your car?” I ask, gesturing to the glossy red BMW parked along the circular driveway.

“No,” Thaddeus says, slipping a set of keys out of his pocket and dangling them over my hands. I catch them on instinct, perplexed. “I broughtyourcar.”

I don’t understand. My eyes drift between the keys in my palms and his face, stunned into silence.

“I didn’t like sending you off with a cab last time. If we want to see more of each other, you should have a reliable way to get around. I do hope you like the color. I may have been inspired by your dress last time,” he fake-whispers.

The words are stolen right out of my mouth. I finally manage something that sounds like a thank you, and I even manage to sound like I mean it. I know it’s no accident I’ve been given this over-the-top, flashy present in front of the family, but it’s still far more than I expected him to do.

Thaddeus Mori’s bony hands cup my cheeks.

“I want to see you sooner this time,” he says. “Try to make time for me?”

He starts to descend the steps. I’m still speechless, my head reeling. Salvatore offers him a ride down to the main road. The polite goodbyes spill out into the driveway while I stand numbly on the top of the stairs, gawking.

When I finally have the sense of mind to join them, something reaches out and tugs me back by the edge of my shirt. Cecilia Mori has pushed her wheelchair up behind me. The rest of the family wanders off into the yard, their attention on the car, while Cecilia holds me in place.

“Have you slept with him?” she asks.

The question is so sudden and invasive, it makes me recoil.

“No? Of course not,” I sputter.

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