Page 9 of Mafia Boss' Surprise Baby

“What’s got you laughing?” he asks after we sit.

“Nothing. I just thought of something funny.”

“Okay,” he says and doesn’t pursue it. A barmaid comes by and asks what we want.

“Get us some of the beer cheese dip with pretzels and you like spinach artichoke?” He asks me. I nod because who the helldoesn’t like that? “You can bring us that too. I’ll have a beer and she’ll have, what? Shirley Temple?” he teases.

“I’m twenty-seven, Mick.” I roll my eyes at him. “Vodka cranberry, please.”

“I never thought I’d be taking you to a bar,” he shakes his head like he can’t believe it.

“I grew up.”

“You sure as hell did,” he says, and something dark flashes in his eyes so quickly I almost convince myself I didn’t see it. Still, it makes me go warm all over, cross and uncross my legs beneath the little table. I accidentally kick him.

“Sorry,” I say, “Close quarters.” I try to hide the heat that rises up my neck in reaction to that accidental touch.

“Did you have a good day?” He asks, awkwardly attempting to make small talk.

“It was fine. You?”

“Not so good.”

“What happened?” I sit up straighter. I’m on alert.

“One of my employees had a heart attack.”

“Oh no! Is he okay?”

“He’s in ICU at Mass Gen now. They said he’s stable but he’s got kind of a long road ahead, rehab and all that to get back on his feet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Me, too. He’s a good guy. And I depend on him. It’s Benny Ragucci.”

“Mr. Ragucci still works for you?” I ask. “I thought he was old when I was a kid.”

“He probably was. Were you in school with his daughter?”

“No, Jen was older than me,” I say. “Like five years.”

He nods and takes a long drink of his beer as the waitress delivers two big platters of apps that barely fit on our tiny table.

“I hope he makes a full recovery,” I say out of obligation.

I rip off part of a soft pretzel and dunk it in steaming hot cheese dip. I groan out loud.

“Good, right? They make it with Guinness,” he says. He scoops some up and nods in agreement, making an appreciative grunt of his own.

If I shut my eyes, I could imagine him making those noises from between my thighs. I press my legs together tighter and force the thought away. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable, sure that my cheeks are flaming and a familiar tug low in my belly pulses.

“This is where you come in,” he says a minute later.

“Hmm?” It’s all I manage to say.

“Ragucci’s down for the count for at least a few months. I need someone to take his place, someone I trust.”

“Who’s his second in command? Surely at his age he’s grooming someone to take over.”

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