Page 19 of Surprise Baby for the Don

“Home?” I ask, suddenly remembering that I’m not actually going back to the apartment I share with my father.

Mateo grins, his gaze softening, and he corrects himself. “Home for now, I should say.”

My stomach flips at the words, at the casual way he acknowledges that we’re inhabiting the same space, even if it’s just temporary. Knowing that sends another thrill through me.

He begins to walk away, leaving me to my ideas, when a gnawing question works its way up to the surface.

“Mateo,” I call out to him, forcing him to stop and turn around. “How exactly am I getting paid for this?”

The question comes out hesitantly, as I’m a little embarrassed to ask it. After all, he spent a ton of money already today on my new wardrobe and lunch. He’s probably spent more on me today than I’d earn in a month’s worth of tips.

Mateo’s grin widens, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “Come down to the office on Friday and we’ll settle up.”

I raise a brow, sensing that he’s enjoying this a little too much. “I don’t think we ever discussed my rate,” I remind him carefully.

“We didn’t have to,” he says, with that quiet confidence that radiates from him. “I’m going to give you more than you would ever ask for. In cash.” He pauses, looking me up and down, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “See you around.”

And with that, he leaves me standing in the empty office, my mind spinning with everything that just happened.

For the next hour, I wander around the first floor, taking notes on my phone. Eventually, I find a sparse supply room and grab a used legal pad and a pen. I start drawing up simple plans, going room by room to render examples of how each space could look.

It’s nearly impossible to focus, though. My thoughts keep drifting back to Mateo, to our easy conversation, to his charming smile. I think about that strange thrill I felt when he told me his men would bring me “home.” This should all feel like an imposition, a client overstepping over his boundaries. Yet the more time I spend with him, the fewer boundaries I actually want between us.

I shake my head, trying to refocus, but it’s no use. Even here, in this empty building, I can feel his presence lingering, filling the space. It’s as if he’s somehow claimed this place just by stepping into it, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone.

I’m being ridiculous. I know that. Mateo is a dangerous man who’s capable of extreme violence. Just a few hours ago, I saw exactly that with my own eyes. So why am I so intrigued by him, drawn to him, even? It could be the power he effortlessly exudes or the way he carries himself, but something about him makes me want to get closer, to understand him, even though I know I shouldn’t.

After a couple of hours, I realize I’m not going to make any more headway with my work. I give up on trying to make sense of the space, heading back outside where the twins are waiting for me, just as Mateo promised. Red opens the door for me without a word, and I slip into the backseat, my mind still buzzing with questions and thoughts I can’t quite sort out.

I find myself staring out the window, watching the city blur past, my mind drifting back to the conversation we had over dessert. The way he brushed off my questions, the way he laughed when I told him I didn’t want to work for the Mob. His amusement was maddening at the time, but now I can’t help but replay it over and over again in my mind. He’s so sure of himself, so comfortable with who he is and what he does. I find that confidence incredibly sexy. It’s something I wish I had quite a bit more of.

When we finally arrive back at the house, I slip out of the car, my mind still spinning, and head up to the room Mateo showed me earlier. It’s just as I left it, elegant and understated, with a view that stretches out over the gardens below. I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to process everything that’s happened, trying to make sense of the strange, confusing pull I feel toward him.

I get up and pace around the room, touching every surface and admiring the elegance of the space. I step into the large walk-in closet, which is not much smaller than my room at home. The clothes the stylist picked out this afternoon are already hung up, several pairs of shoes lined up underneath each outfit.

The outfit I arrived in is also hanging up, though pushed to the back of the rack, a stark reminder that it doesn’t belong with the rest of the beautiful clothes. I desperately wished for my comfortable clothes back home. My real life doesn’t quite fit with this game of house I’m playing. I don’t belong here.

This is insane. I barely know Mateo, but I’m perfectly comfortable in his home, pretending that the quiet elegance is something I experience every day. But it comes with a cost. What I saw today would be enough to scare anyone with half a brain. I should put on my old clothes and find a way to walk out of here without looking back. Instead, I walk through the closet, running my fingers reverently over the fine fabrics of the expensive clothes, and wonder how Mateo will respond to each outfit.

With a sigh, I leave the closet, moving to the balcony to watch the last rays of sunlight fade over the city. If I only had a week to impress Mateo with my ideas and designs, I needed to focus on the space and not on my boss.

12

Mateo

Ginny’s been here for all of three days, and just her presence has been sheer torture. It’s like she’s everywhere at once, catching my eye, passing by my office, sometimes exchanging a glance that lingers a beat too long. If I thought I’d be able to keep things strictly professional, that idea went out the window the first night I climbed into bed and fantasized about her being in it under me.

Every day, I find myself looking for reasons to check in on her progress, to see her as she has fabrics, paints, and furniture brought into that wing, to catch that spark in her eyes when she’s excited about something fitting that space just right. She’s brought life into my home.

Most days, I order lunch and have it sent to her without asking. She’s usually in the middle of a paint project or working on some small detail I would never notice, like the crown molding. I watch as she stands back to assess her work and nods her approval. I live for those moments, to see her light up. She clearly loves what she’s doing, and that makes it easier to justify her presence here. Truthfully, I’m already dreading the momentshe leaves.

She hasn’t complained about the lunch intrusions, and they’ve become the highlight of my day. Sometimes, she even looks at me, surprised, her eyes softening for a second, and it’s enough to get me through the rest of the day.

It’s the nights that are torture, knowing that her room is just mere feet away. I toss and turn, battling with my desire, not wanting to let my fantasies get the best of me. It would make seeing her in real life that much more difficult. I can’t be jerking off to mental images of her in her new cream-colored sweater that clings to her curves so temptingly because then I would have a hard time not trying to rip said cream-colored sweater off of her during our lunch ritual.

Today, though, my attention is split. I’ve been on the phone for hours, dealing with a mess that is no doubt the fault of the Savinis. I own a number of different legitimate businesses around the city. Many of them started off as fronts for illegal activity, but I’ve been trying to keep more of them legit these days. In this political climate, it’s better not to give the Feds any reason to look my way.

One of those businesses is a small grocery store in an urban part of the city. It’s one of the only grocery stores in a food desert, and the margins are beyond excellent. The city has, begrudgingly, given me several awards for my innovation with that store. Last night, one of their shipments was tampered with, crates busted open and rifled through. Technically speaking, we don’t have proof yet that the Savinis are behind it, but my gut is telling me it’s them. The timing, the precision, all reek of their handiwork. I’ve already been on three separate calls, issuing orders and making it clear that whoever’s responsible will answer for it.

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