Page 9 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
“Done.”
Paolo wipes sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. Even in a suit, my brother looks like he stepped off a magazine cover. “How’s Dario adjusting to fatherhood?”
“Better than expected. Though Paige is trying to get the babies to call me Nonno.”
“Could be worse,” Santino says with rare humor. “Could be Gramps.”
I look between these two men, my brother and my oldest friend. They’ve earned the truth. Or part of it, anyway.
“Speaking of family changes,” I say, “I’m not just a grandfather now. I’m a married man.”
Paolo’s jaw hits the pavement. “What? When? Who?”
“Her name’s Mia. Mia Becerra.” Soon to be Andretti, if I have anything to say about it. “We married last night.”
Santino’s sharp eyes flicker with recognition. He was there when we first learned about her. But he keeps his mouth shut, reading the situation perfectly.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Paolo presses. “Arranged marriage?”
“Not exactly.”
Paolo’s phone buzzes, and his face transforms the second he sees Quinn’s name. He steps away to take the call, leaving me alone with Santino.
“Miss Becerra,” Santino says carefully. “So you went through with it.”
“It’ll pay off. I just need her to fall for me first.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
The question makes my skin itch. Failure isn’t an option. Not with Mia. “She will.”
My phone buzzes with an update from the man trailing my wife. She’s heading back to the hotel after lunch with her friends. Perfect timing.
The drive back feels endless, every red light a personal insult. By the time I reach her floor, my patience is hanging by a thread. I slide the key card I acquired days ago into the lock and step inside.
A packed suitcase sits by the door.
Well, well. My little bird thinks she’s flying away.
“Mia?” I call out, not wanting to startle her. The last thing I need is her screaming about intruders when I’m trying to charm my way into her bed.
I find her on her knees beside the bed, peering underneath it. The sight of her ass in the air does things to my blood pressure that probably aren’t healthy for a man my age.
“What are you doing?”
She looks up, cheeks flushing pink. “I can’t find one of my—” She cuts herself off, but I immediately know what she’s looking for.
Yellow lace panties. Currently residing in my jacket pocket because I’m apparently a fucking teenager when it comes to this woman. I’ve been in this room every day while she showered or slept, memorizing everything about her. The way she arranges her things. The PIN on her phone—her birthday, predictable and endearing. The sounds she makes when she thinks no one can hear.
I should feel guilty about the invasion. Should. But watching Mia, learning her patterns, her preferences, it’s become an addiction I can’t kick.
“Forget it,” she says, standing quickly. “I don’t need them.”
“I saw your suitcase.”
Her teeth worry her bottom lip. She was planning to bolt before I got back. Fury claws at my ribs at the thought.
“It’s good you packed,” I say instead, keeping my voice level. “You can move in with me immediately.”
