Page 15 of Mafia Boss' Surprise Baby

Sal goes through the email from Ragucci with me, the one that lays out what he does in a day and in a week for the most part. A lot of it is networking, it seems like. Keeping in touch with the different departments, checking in on the legitimate businesses and keeping tabs on the operations under the table as well.

I’m writing out a sample schedule to look over with Mickey later. The job is part politician, part accountant and reports direct to the man himself. It makes me sweat just thinking about it.

All I’ve done for the last couple days is learn about the job, ask questions about the job, and avoid my brother who does not know about the promotion yet. He’s high enough in the organization he’s bound to hear about it sooner or later and I’d prefer that he hears it from his friend and not me. Me, he’ll yell at for putting myself at risk. I can’t imagine him shouting in Mickey O’Halloran’s face.

By three-thirty I’m closer to figuring out whatever his method is of hiding the illegal funds in plain sight. I had to go back seven quarters to pick up on it. Cleaning supplies and services including personal protective equipment expenditures. Seeing big budget numbers for those line items after Covid is unremarkable. It’s just the fact that I’ve traced the billing andknow the actual cost of those products and processes so I know the figures are padded. I know that’s not the only thing, but I feel triumphant knowing that I cracked this much of his method.

My phone beeps, the new secure one I was issued yesterday. It’s a text from Mickey asking if I can come to the crow’s nest early. I programmed my contacts to list him as BOSS in all caps to remind myself exactly who he is to me. Not a friend. Certainly nothing more than that either. So, I reply in line with that resolution.Be right there, boss.

When I reach the third floor I square my shoulders.

I press my thumb to the scanner after I type in the code. The lock clicks and I open the door. He’s waiting for me. He stands when I walk in. When he looks me up and down in a surreptitious sweep of his gaze, I feel it. My nipples tighten, my thighs clench and I can’t swallow.

“Katie,” he says by way of greeting. The way he says my name, his voice dark, the curl of his tongue around the word, is as insinuating as a touch on my upper thigh.

“Mick,” I say and keep it brief, neutral, officious, and professional. Like someone who absolutely does not need to remove her panties because they’re soaked already.

“I’ve heard good things about you the past couple of days. You’re knowledgeable and eager to learn the best practices,” he says. I should thank him for the compliment but I can hardly concentrate on a word he says. “You okay?”

I nod too enthusiastically. He goes to the bar cart and brings me a bottle of water. I thank him and gulp down half of it in one go.

“Did I forget to show you where the water cooler is in the lounge?” He teases.

“I think I got overheated.”

“Overheated?” he says, plainly unsure how that would happen in a perfectly climate-controlled space. I clear my throat.

“Anyway,” I say, “I don’t want to bother Mr. Ragucci during his rehab, obviously. His health comes first, but—”

“You have questions,” he supplies. “If I can’t answer them, you can email him. With the disclaimer that he can get to it when he feels up to it, no rush,” he says.

“That’s reasonable. Thank you,” I say. “So what did you want to see me about? Or are you babysitting me while I settle in?”

“That’s what you think this is? That I’m holding your hand till you can cross the street by yourself? We spend a lot of time together, my lead accountant and me. He oversees the business end while Rory watches the streets. They’re my two closest contacts in the organization. So while he’s recuperating, you’re it. You and your brother are my conduits to what happens in the system in real time. How’d he take it?”

“Take what?”

“When you told Rory about the promotion. Was he pissed?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t told him,” I mutter miserably.

“Wait, are you scared to tell him?” He asks and at first I think he’s giving me crap about being a coward but I let his tone register and realize what he means.

“I’m not scared of him. He’s just going to yell at me for being stupid and I don’t want to deal with it.”

“Just? That’s not how we treat family.” His voice goes cold. “You want me to talk to him?”

“That would be worse I think,” I sigh. “For him to hear it from you. He was fine with me working on the legit side for a while, make some money and get my feet under me so I can start on my CPA prep. But nothing risky, nothing where I’m involved in illegal activities that could be a problem down the road in my career.”

“Do you think I’m asking you to do something unethical?” he challenges.

“I grew up in the life and it never bothered me that my dad packed a gun everywhere we went. I accepted it. But as an accountant, I’ve worked my whole adult life to make sure the math is correct, everything is clear and concrete and true. Numbers are black and white, right and wrong. You can’t manipulate that system and pretend it’s all true. It’s tax evasion and money laundering and racketeering. Those are crimes. So, yes, what I’m doing is unethical.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at me with an unreadable expression. I feel myself starting to fidget.

“I’m sorry. I should—”

“No. Don’t be sorry. You’re the first person who’s ever told me what they really think of the organization I run. You described it with confidence—it’s illegal. You like the predictable number system and manipulating that to suit my needs is distressing to you. You don’t want to do this job.”

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