Page 13 of The Bratva's Secret Baby

Damien

“How did you get my number, Damien?” she repeated as if I hadn’t heard her the first time.

Whilst I could avoid her question over the phone, I couldn’t ignore it now as she was sitting across from me. I’d asked her to meet me at a café near her law school.

She’d fallen asleep shortly after our marathon last night. For some reason, I couldn’t tear myself away from her and leave her alone. She’d looked so peaceful in her sleep that I didn’t want to wake her up. I’d wanted to spend the whole night watching over her.

And I did.

I left before she woke up, as I had to come to my senses, shit, I was already too obsessed with her.

As for her number, well… it wasn’t difficult for me to get that kind of information.

Instead, I said, “I get whatever I want, sweetheart.”

Luckily, she didn’t press on as one of the baristas walked up to our table.

“What can I get you?”

“A macchiato,” I said. “Extra creamy.”

Twisting his head towards Rosanne, he asked, “And you, ma’am?”

“I’ll have the same.”

“I’ll bring them to you shortly.”

Rosanne smiled at him. “Thank you.”

The barista smiled back, which had me gritting my teeth. She’s Mine!

In the thirty-seven years I’d lived, I’d never met a non-Italian who preferred macchiato to latte, except for myself. I’d come to love it after a business trip to Sicily seven years ago.

“So, you love macchiatos, too?”

She laughed. “I’ve never had a macchiato. I only ordered it because you did.” She leaned in and whispered. “Latte is my favorite.”

Her smell is so goddamn sexy. A smile touched my lips.

“Well, I think macchiato’s about to become your new favorite.”

The barista came with our orders just then. Rosanne took a sip of her macchiato and hummed.

“It’s good.” She took another sip. “I swear, I’m never having lattes again.”

Good.

Something to keep me engraved in her memories forever. “Keep that promise.”

“I will,” she said gleefully. “Yesterday was about me. I think today should be about you. Tell me about yourself.”

I gave it some thought. This was tricky. I needed to keep this conversation about me as brief as I possibly could. “You know my name already…”

“But not your last name,” she cut in.

My stomach churned. I didn’t like where this was going.

“You’ll know someday, trust me. I’ve never been married, and I run a family business in Russia.”

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