Page 8 of Nanny's Baby for the Italian Mafia Boss

I take a long drink of water, casting my eyes around the room so I’m not caught in the snare of his gaze.

I bet he weaves a dangerous web and plenty of women fall into it.

He stands in front of the desk, one ankle crossed over the other, and my attention drops to his cock.

Oh my god, even the black slacks can’t hide how big he is.

“What do you like to do?” he asks out of nowhere.

I stop drinking the water and screw on the top to the bottle. “Don’t you want to know my school—”

“I’ve read your resume. You have your degree, you’re C.P.R. certified, and you have plenty of experience with kids. You have glowing recommendations, and that’s great. That tells me you care about your job and kids, but it doesn’t tell me what you like to do or who you are as a person.”

“Oh,” I state with surprise. I’m not used to that. “Well, um… I love being active, going to the park, amusement parks are my favorite, dressing up, going out with friends.” I stop myself from listing anything else when I realize my best friend stabbed me in the back and now I don’t have anyone I can trust. “I always love to have blankets on me when I’m sitting down on the couch. It doesn’t matter how warm it is. I always want a blanket.”

His dark demeanor slips for a moment, and I catch his smile, showing his perfect teeth which makes me want him more. I hate it.

“A blanket lover. Okay, I can respect that,” he says, rubbing his face back into its solemn state. “Nothing like being cozy.”

“Exactly.”

“And what kind of things do you hate?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, once again, surprised by his answer.

“Things you don’t like? Like what makes you happy, what makes you mad? What are you intolerant of?”

This is such an odd interview. I stay silent for a minute, gathering my thoughts as confusion whirls around in my mind.

He tucks his hands in his pockets. “I’m asking because my daughter’s happiness is important to me. I need to know you’re kind, compassionate, funny, and easily adaptable. I need to know you want to be part of this family because I won’t let my little girl fall absolutely in love with you only for you to leave. So, while your resume is impressive—” he picks it up from his desk and tears it in half. “It tells me nothing about who you are as a person.”

“I understand.” Pushing the fear from my mind, I clasp my hands together on my lap, wanting nothing more than to be close to the family I work for. “Well, I don’t like radishes, I think they are gross.” I crinkle my nose. “Or dragon fruit. Both remind me of dirt. I dislike when someone says they will do something and then they don’t.”

“My daughter does not like radishes either. It’s something you have in common.” He suddenly sits down in the chair next to me and holds out his hand. “We never got a proper introduction. I’m Matias Milazzo.”

I jump out of the chair and back away when the name finally clicks. He gets up, slow and steady, as if he is dealing with a wild animal.

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

“Milazzo. You’re mafia. I don’t get in business with dangerous families. Not after—” Not after what happened to my family. “It was nice meeting you—”

“—Wait.” He wraps his hand around my arm to stop me. “What you have heard about my family is true. I am in charge of my family’s…organization.”

“You’re a crime family,” I correct him with a bit more sass than anticipated.

He tilts his head and the friendliness in his eyes is gone, replaced with the same darkness I’d expect to find in a man who is about to do something I do not like.

“We are. We are successful, too. You’ll find we run most of the city. While you might not like my business tactics, I am a different man personally. I want to offer you the job. A million per year? Benefits included.”

An odd sound escapes me, something between a yelp and a gasp. “A million is a bit much.”

“Not for my daughter’s happiness. You have one last interview to pass, and I have to warn you, she’s high energy. Unless you want to walk out the door because you don’t want to be associated with a crime family,” he says.

His hand is still on my arm, his fingers clutching firm enough to have me stay still but gentle enough for me to melt into his arms.

“I—I don’t know. You don’t understand.”

“I don’t,” he agrees softly, and I can tell he’s trying to calm me so that I don’t run out of here like a maniac. “But, maybe I can prove I’m someone you can trust so one day I can understand.”

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