Page 63 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

Salvatore gives me a gentle but firm suggestion that I should start seeing him regularly if I want this deal to work. I realize how strange it must look to him. I agreed to this deal, insinuated that this was what I wanted and that I was willing to do whatever it took to see it work…and not once have I made any effort toward getting to know the man. We’re not kids. We have each other’s numbers, but Thaddeus and I continue to be led aroundby Salvatore instead of either of us asking each other if and when we’d like to go out like reasonable adults.

I can’t explain to him that, between having a mental health crisis and getting knocked up by his brother, my schedule has been a little tight lately.

But Salvatore is right, and in some backward, old-school way of thinking, the bid of an $80,000 sedan has declared Thaddeus Mori’s very serious intentions toward me and our arrangement.

“I’ll reach out to him today,” I promise.

Before I can stand up, Salvatore adds, “Marcel says you’ve been spending a lot of time with Nico.”

I freeze like a deer that just heard a twig snap in the woods.

“Nico has been spending a lot of time with me,” I correct him carefully.

Salvatore leans back, studying me over his intertwined fingers. “Has he said anything about his release from prison?”

I struggle to think of anything. Nico has told me a lot about his life before prison, but not much about getting out.

“Nothing specific.”

I hate the way he looks at me, like every answer runs through his own lie detector test, scanning it for irregularities. One wrong blink, and I might be quietly shuffled to the list of people Salvatore distrusts.

“Can I ask why, sir?”

“Nico’s release was funded by someone cooking the books at the fighting ring. That much we suspected from the beginning, and now we know it for a fact. They skimmed enough money to pay off a judge, who accepted a fraudulent appeal and fast-tracked Nico out of the system. His prison records were tampered with to exclude the multiple convictions and incident reports he earned in prison, and all recorded evidence of his visitors and phone calls have gone up in smoke.Someonehas an incentive to want Nico out, which on its own isn’t an issue, but also for keeping their motives a secret from me.”

“I don’t know anything about that…”

Salvatore nods.

“I didn’t think you would. I wanted to wait until after you were married and the deal was done, but I promised you a job and I think I may have something for you now. Marcel wants you far away from Nico, but I want the opposite. I want you to investigate Nico. The circumstances of his release, his friends, his habits. He might let his guard down around you. See what you can learn and how much you can get him to admit to. Everything you discover, bring back to me.”

My heart drops to my feet, my tongue going dry.

Salvatore stands and comes around the desk, making me look up at him. His hand rests on my head, and I shudder under his touch.

“I trust you with this because I know you love your brother, and you’re willing to protect him. Depending on what we find, we may be able to take the arranged marriage off the table.”

Which means something would happen to make Nico no longer a threat.

It isn’t even a question. I am not given the option to sayyesorno. This is a command. Ajob.

Just like Frankie swaying toward the bookie that night at the fighting ring, I am the mental warfare that Salvatore wants to use against Nico. The Achilles heel that might bring him down—for everyone’s benefit. Maybe even mine.

I feel myself nod. I am going to look into Nico, to try to learn the truth about him. Salvatore doesn’t have to know that I’m not just doing it for him. I’m doing it for me. My stomach squirms nervously, a quiet voice in my head gently correcting me:

For us.

19

Nico

I have a headache and a hitlist. Thaddeus Mori is on it, somewhere near the top, and I don’t really remember why. I just remember falling asleep thinking about killing him. Maybe I dreamed thewhy. The details are foggy, but they probably aren’t important. There’s some reason he deserves it, even if I have to figure out what it is after the fact. But he’s not in spot number one, nowhere near the top of the list.

That spot is reserved for the ones who threatenedher.

I check my phone, second nature. I ignore the dozen or so outraged messages demanding to know why I walked into the ring already half-dead, flicking the messages away like insignificant flies. The fight was over before it had even begun. Everybody in the room could see it, and there will be a lot of pissed-off people who lost money on that fight.

But the important ones, the ones who knew the outcome before I ever set foot in that cage, I’m suretheymade a killing betting against the odds.

---