Page 13 of Secret Babies for the Italian Mafia Boss

I’ve tried calling my dad a few times, but with no answer; I stopped three years ago. If he doesn’t want anything to do with me, fine, but who wouldn’t want to get to their grandchildren?

Mom died when I was younger, but I bet she would have stayed with me if she were alive. She wouldn’t have left me alone with two kids. Eventually, she would have when I got on my feet.

How do I raise two kids alone?

I have an amazing next-door neighbor, Louisa. She’s retired and in her sixties. She has no children or husband of her own. She does whatever she wants, and for some reason, she loves watching the kids in exchange for some of my homemade baked goods.

I run a bakery from my tiny kitchen, and the wedding cake I’m putting the final touches on will be enough to pay the bills.

My dream is to have my own bakery shop and call it O-Squared Bakery.

For Oliver and Olivia.

Louisa watches them for a few hours every day while I’m in the middle of baking, and things are absolute chaos. I didn’t want them getting themselves hurt on the stove because I wasn’t paying attention to them, if I looked away for one second.

I’m lucky to have Louisa. Without her, I don’t know what I’d do. She says it takes a village to raise a child, but I don’t have a village. She’s my village.

My best friends Cora and Jasmine don’t even know where I am. My dad said if he found out I contacted them, he’d make it to where I couldn’t contact them again.

A threat.

He’d kill them for talking to me.

So I’ve stayed away. I haven’t checked my old email. My old phone number was disconnected. There was no way for them to find me.

He made sure I was isolated.

“You’re doing okay,” I tell myself as I clean the rest of the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. I grab a paper towel and dry off the counter. “You’re surviving. You’ll be okay.”

But some days I’m so tired. Some days, it takes all I have not to give up, but then I hear Olivia’s laugh or feel Oliver’s hand in mine, and I realize I can’t give up.

So I bust my ass every day to make my dream come true. I run my bakery through my small two-bedroom apartment and hope one day I save enough money to open my own store.

A knock at the door sounds, and I check the time.

Six in the morning.

Who the hell is here at six? The cake doesn’t have to be ready until three.

I rush to my kids’ room, and they are sleeping, so I close the door. An impatient knock sounds again, and I huff, tightening my robe.

“I’m coming,” I say as quietly as possible without yelling and waking my kids.

I unlock the door and open it just enough to see a man in a nice suit standing there.

“Ms. Thompson?” he asks.

I clutch my robe together. “I haven’t gone by that in years. How can I help you?”

“You’re Mr. Thompson’s daughter, correct?”

I grind my teeth together. “According to him, I’m not. What do you need? I haven’t broken any of the rules. What does he want? That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Mommy? Who is at the door?”

I turn my head and plaster on a smile. “One of my friends is asking for a last-minute order. Go back to bed, Ollie. Okay?”

He’s standing in the hallway, scrubbing his eyes, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. My children are too damn smart. “Okay,” he relents. “You do make the bestest cookies.”

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