Page 1 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don
1
MARCO
"Fuck."
The ledger stares back at me, columns of numbers that should command my full attention.
Instead, my mind wanders.
Even after nearly a year, I can’t sit at this desk and not have flashbacks to Gabriella sprawled across financial reports, hair fanned out in luxurious waves, laughing as I growled about work that needed doing.
"There's always more work, Marco." Her fingers had traced the perpetual furrow between my brows. "But there's only one tonight."
I have iron control except when it comes to her because of course I fucked her then and there.
The memories flood back now.
Fucking her on this desk.
Her sucking me off in my chair at this desk.
Me eating her sweet pussy as I sat in this chair with her on my desk… where my papers now sit.
I close my eyes, and she's here again.
I swear I can smell the scent of her perfume haunting me after all this time.
It seems like yesterday that she kicked off those ridiculous heels and padded around my office barefoot, leaving lipstick on my whiskey glass.
She'd perch on the edge of my desk, those long legs crossed, challenging me with questions about territory and business strategies that no Don's daughter should be asking.
Too smart for her own good. Too smart for mine.
I loosen my tie, unbutton my collar as pain sears through me.
What burns most isn't that she left. It's that look in her eyes when she did.
Like she was seeing a different person.
Someone she hated.
“I was so wrong about you. It’s not that you don’t want people to know you. It’s that you don’t want people to realize you have no soul,” she’d said.
I’d been a child the last time someone’s words truly bruised me.
But I wasn’t going to let her know she was succeeding in inflicting pain. “I never made any promises.”
She laughed then. “They wouldn’t mean anything if you did.” Then she was gone.
That’s not to say I haven’t seen her since she stormed out of my office accusing me of betraying her for reasons I’ve never asked about.
But whereas before her flirty eyes would watch me, now they’re filled with hate and distrust.
I stand and move away from the desk filled with memories, and I reach for the decanter, pouring three fingers of whiskey.
The amber liquid does little to burn away the memories.
Maybe I should have forced her to clarify her charges against me.
