Page 70 of Secret Babies for the Italian Mafia Boss

“Let’s go see your new bakery.” He opens the front door, and a new Range Rover sits in the driveway with big red bow on it.

“Luca…” I say his name with wariness. “What is that? What is that!” I scream in excitement as I run to the sparkling black Range Rover.

My dream car.

“It’s the beginning of a new life,” he says, tossing me the keys. “You want to drive?”

I nearly choke and flatten my palm against the hood. “Are you kidding?” I open the driver’s side door so fast and hop in. “Oh my God, Luca. It’s gorgeous.” The leather seats are red, and there’s a B stitched in the middle of the seat and a golden B plate in the middle of the steering wheel.

“B?”

“Bianco,” he says as he buckles himself in. “Because you will be one day, very soon.”

Something about those words springs hope.

“This car is yours, Camilla. All yours,” he informs. He presses the button to start it and then taps on the screen in the middle of the dash. “Let’s go to your bakery.”

“The bow.” I point.

“Damn it.”

I snicker when he climbs out and yanks the ribbon off, tossing it in the driveway.

“Someone will clean it up,” he mumbles, getting back into the car.

When he buckles himself up, I press the gas and reach over to grab his hand. I can’t believe he did this for me.

“Thank you. I love how smooth it drives. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Consider it back pay for child support,” he teases, and I slap his arm.

“That’s not funny.”

“I know. I didn’t mean for it to sound that cruel,” he barks a laugh and kisses the top of my hand.

When we get through the gate, I take a left, driving to the bakery in my brand-new car. While we drive, I press a bunch of random buttons, flipping on the heated seats.

“Oh, butt warmers. I love those.”

“I have two perfectly fine butt warmers right here.” He lifts his hands in the air, and I laugh.

“You did not just say that.” Luca is so different when he isn’t in business mode all the time. I know he can be intense and scary, but over these last six weeks, he has been softer and gentle.

He’s adapted, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t do his job.

Just the other night, he came home with bloody knuckles, but he wouldn’t tell me what happened, and I didn’t ask. Why bother? I’ve been down this road before with my father. Anything they do that requires them to get blood on their hands means what they did was dangerous and illegal. The less I know, the better.

I took care of his wounds and went on with our night as if it didn’t happen.

And then he fucked me like he loved me but wished he hated me, and I had the best night's sleep I ever had.

When I pull into a parking spot, I notice Cora outside talking to the police officer while a paramedic wraps her arm.

“Oh, my God.” I rush out of the car, not bothering to shut the door. “Cora!” I slither my way through a few people, stepping on broken glass. I look up at her coffee shop and notice it’s vandalized. The windows are shattered, the tables and chairs are broken, and the cushions to the booths are ripped.

I finally get my feet moving under me and notice the windows to my bakery are shattered too, but the inside looks fine.

I don’t care about any of that. I only want to get to Cora.

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