Page 31 of Claimed By the Mobster
Elizabeth’s eyes light as I approach, reaching out her arms with a big smile, anticipating being picked up.
I nod. “Mummy first.”
“Ben?” Wyn stirs as I kiss her forehead, but struggles to open her eyes.
“I think there’s something you’ll want to tell me, right?” I tease as I stroke her cheek. “It’s okay. Stay here. I’ll bring you some food in a bit.”
“Mmm, ’anks,” she slurs and flops deeper into the cushions. The first part of her pregnancy is always tiring. She needs her rest, and she knows I’ll take care of everything. No need for her to get up if she needs to sleep.
I scoop Elizabeth into my arms. I’ll have dinner with the kids and come and wake up my wife to eat later. And if she is pregnant again, as I suspect, I have the ideal way to make her comfortable.
I have just the idea to keep her warm and happy.
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EPILOGUE
BENEDICT
10 years later
I still look forward to Saturdays. Particularly on drizzly winter late afternoon weekdays like this one, that has been a long sequence of minor mafia fracas to manage, followed by a report that I need to make a decision on. Westminster is more wealthy and powerful than ever, but there are always reasons for me to be wary, and keep looking out. Thankfully disputes with the Bratva are years in the past. But there’s still a chunk of most of my days that requires me to work. Saturdays are a treat to look forward to because the Crosse family spends the whole day together.
Henry, our eldest son, is nine now. Serious and hardworking, Wyn says he’s just like me. But his smile is identical to hers. Then there’s Molly, seven, our tearaway. How Wyn and I produced a girl who loves to be naughty as much as she does, I don’t know. Two years ago I found her sitting on the roof of Wyn’s country house, calm as you like. I nearly had a heart attack. Elizabeth is four, and as sweet and funny as her mother.
Even Tom and his husband Sergey usually manage to come for lunch on Saturdays. Tom was a little freaked out when Wyn was pregnant, but Sergey—the sensible one of the two—took to the babies immediately and has become a sort of surrogate brother. I think his enthusiasm dragged Tom along, and I heard him broach the idea of starting their own family when Sergey was playing trains on the floor with Henry last month.
It’s almost laughable how much work was my whole life, not so long ago. And there’s still plenty to do. I tell myself it’s a good thing, as Anwyn’s job as a University professor is demanding, and the kids have to go to school. Even if I could pass off all responsibilities for Westminster, to spend all my time with my wife and kids I’d have to home educate our kids, and figure out ways to keep Anwyn entertained…
That doesn’t sound terrible, actually.
Not yet. I love my kids and they deserve a better education than I’d provide. I turn my attention back to the report, my eye catching on a plant in my office that I’m sure wasn’t there yesterday? I have so many now, and Wyn cares for them all, sneakily adding more, or swapping out ones that have finished flowering.
There’s a tap on the door before it slowly opens and Henry peeks around the corner. “Dad?”
“Come in,” I reassure him, turning off the screen to my computer. He might be born into the mafia, but that doesn’t mean he’ll see too much too young. I protect my family from the grittier aspects of my job. “Bring a chair.”
He smiles and his bright blue eyes light up just as his mother’s do. My heart melts a bit. Damn but I’m a fool for my kids.
“What is it?” I ask as he flops into the chair, having put it next to mine at the desk. I notice that he has an exercise book clutched in his hand.
“Science homework.” I don’t even have space to raise an eyebrow in surprise before he adds, “I know Mum is the one to ask about that, but she seemed really tired when she picked us up from school. I don’t want to bother her.”
I hide my smile. Tired, huh? I’d noticed the same and put it down to that time of the month, but if Henry has noted it too… Perhaps I should ask my wife a question this evening. There might be a moment for one of my favourite opportunities to look after her.
“Proud of you for being so considerate, Henry. You did the right thing.” My boy can shoot five bullseyes in a row, but it’s his emotional smarts that will get him to the top of whichever profession he chooses. I suspect it won’t be the mafia. I have a fiver on Molly being more bloodthirsty and risk taking than I am, and that she’ll be my second in command by the time she’s sixteen and running Westminster when I retire, though Wyn is convinced our middle child will end up in the circus.
“You’re not as good at science as Mum, I know, but I thought maybe you could help me figure it out?” He holds out the exercise book, which has a sheet of paper of the printed homework slipped in.
