Page 1 of Kingpin's Baby
1
REN
Every day my boss and I play death or donuts. At least, I think it’s a game. Mr Booth is the kingpin of Fulham, the oldest and deadliest mafia in London. They’re known for making awkward problems disappear. Permanently.
So perhaps he takes it more literally than I do?
I’m about to find out if a year of us debating the merits of donuts over the dubious choice of unaliving has made any difference to his murderous tendencies. Because today, the story I’ll tell him is aboutme.
I hesitate at his door, butterflies taking flight in my stomach as they always do when I’m about to see Mr Booth. You’d think I would be used to his intense stares, dark scowls, and dry humour. But nope, I still get all fluttery.
Every. Morning.
It’s naive and silly, but I adore my boss, and I’m just his cleaner, here in my sneakers and leggings at five in the morning. It doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous. A silver fox. Black hair with flecks of grey, and deep green eyes that I lose myself in each time I look at him.
He always wears a black suit and a white shirt, everything understated but of the highest quality. He’s classic and refined, just like this mansion that serves as his headquarters.
Direct gaze. Broad shoulders that I imagine I see everywhere. Ridiculous. There’s a biker outside my apartment most evenings, wearing black leathers trimmed with green. I think he must be a courier or something. I spy on him through the curtains as he waits, sometimes tapping on his phone. I watch him, darkened visor down, and I have to remind myself that he can’t be Mr Booth.
I kinda wish he was.
But what I really appreciate is the way Mr Booth listens, and seeks out my opinion. He doesn’t always agree with it, I can tell, but he’ll nod and though his mouth will twist with displeasure, he’ll rumble that I have a point.
That considered agreement has made other opinions threaten to bubble up over the last few months. Words like,I’d love to have your babies, andwould you take my V-card?
I think he’d be a perfect father. Gruff and kind and protective. And, I admit, part of my thoughts are most definitely about the fantasy of how he’d feel inside me. How it would be if he were on top of me, focusing all that scorchingly intense attention on my body.
Almost every day I bite my lip to prevent myself from saying things that would ruin it all. Powerful billionaire kingpins aren’t interested in their cleaners. And they don’t ride sleek black motorbikes.
My boss is as far from obtainable for me as flying to the moon.
Today, though, I’m extra nervous, in addition to concern about what I might say if I don’t hold it in. Because I’m going to beg him to help me, and pray he’s in a generous mood.
More donuts than death.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I exhale, and open the door, looking in with a bright smile, as though this is a normal day and I’ll repeat a story from the internet that has nothing to do with me. As if I haven’t got my whole life on the line.
Mr Booth stares right at me. Waiting. His face is thunder, green eyes an impenetrable jungle full of poisonous snakes.
Oh. Sugar.
12 months earlier
People say that they’ll die if they mess up their job, and sure, if you’re a Navy SEAL or something, that’s true.
Not usually the literal case for a cleaner, though.
The warnings of the kingpin’s second-in-command echo through my mind.
Do not talk to Mr Booth.
Do not annoy Mr Booth.
Do not vacuum clean in the same room as Mr Booth.
Do not touch anything on Mr Booth’s desk.
Do not ask what happened to the previous cleaner.
