Page 68 of Secret Babies for the Italian Mafia Boss

“I’m okay with that. I’ve missed you too much. I want it all now. I want the mess,” I admit, hurrying down the staircase. I might have left the mother of my children behind. I slow down and look over my shoulder. “Come on.”

“Go. I’ll be behind you.”

I basically run ahead of her like it’s Christmas morning and come to a complete stop when I get to the kitchen.

Alvize is there, and he is covered in flour. The floors are a mess. There are a few broken eggs, and somehow, there is batter on the ceiling that’s dripping onto the island.

But then I hear the giggles of my kids, and I don’t even care how messy the house is.

“Mr. Luca! You’re here!” My daughter squeals when she sees me, slamming her tiny body into my legs. She gets flour all over me, but I don’t care.

How do I get her to call me Dad? I don’t know about having that conversation with them. Do I blurt it out?

“I have a tiara for you to wear for our tea,” Olivia informs me, taking my hand and dragging me to the dining area.

It’s like an explosion of glitter and stuffed animals happened.

Sitting around the dining table are a penguin, a dog, a fish, and a polar bear. They are all wearing tiaras and plastic necklaces.

There’s a teacup in front of the guests, and Olivia pulls out a chair for me.

“Come sit, Mr. Luca.” She pats the cushion on the seat.

“Don’t mind if I do.” I take a seat and scooch closer to the table, noticing the little teacups have nothing in them. “You know, I can have real tea in here. We can make that happen.”

“Silly, Mr. Luca. We’re playing pretend. It’s pretend tea.” She plops the tiara on my head, and I hear a giggle coming from the right. I look up to see Camilla watching me.

“You look so pretty,” she says.

I lift my pinky as I pick up my teacup. “Why, thank you, ma’am.” I sip my pretend tea. “Mmm, that’s so good. It’s a little hot. I think I need to wait a minute.”

“We made you breakfast!” Oliver runs into the dining room, holding a plate of pancakes, and he places it in front of me.

“Oh.” I stare at the mess. It’s questionable that they are pancakes. They are runny still, and I think I see an eggshell.

Yes, that’s an eggshell.

“Oh, wow,” I try to sound delighted to taste it, and Camilla snorts, having to turn around so the kids don’t see her laugh. “This looks so…” I try to find the right word, but the pancake batter drips onto the table.

“Don’t blame me. They wanted to cook it, so I let them,” Alvize says, wiping his hands on a black apron. He’s a mess from head to toe.

The other half of the shell is sticking against his cheek. I’m sure of it.

“Aren’t you going to try it, Mr. Luca?” Oliver asks, sticking out his bottom lip.

“Of course I am.”

“I’m going to get started on the coffee,” Camilla says, using the perfect excuse to get her out of this situation.

I’m going to have to eat it. I have to. I can’t have those puppy dog eyes frowning at me from my son.

“Coffee is already made. That I can promise is good.”

Alvize for the win.

“Can I get a big cup?” I ask, picking up my fork and trying to find the best part of the pancake. Giving my son a reassuring smile, I cut the part that does not have the eggshell in it and hold my breath when the batter drips from the half-cooked pancake.

I shove it in my mouth and hold in a cough of disgust, swallowing it whole, so I don’t have to chew it. It doesn’t help. The thickness of the batter sticks to my tongue, and the moment Camilla gives me the cup of my coffee, I take a large swig, not caring how hot it is.

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