Page 26 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss
That does sound bad, but all I can see is Emily’s smile, and how her eyes sparkled when she lifted her head and saw me walking into the room. How right she felt beneath me, her hand on my back and in my hair.
“I will burn London, England,the worlduntil I find her.” My words are low but emphatic.
“I’ll put the word out to see if she’s been kidnapped, but if she just left, we’ll need Blackfen’s help.” Mayfair sighs. “There’s an internet forum he sometimes responds to posts on.”
“Thank you.” I nod.
Look, that was polite? I can play nice when it’s important.
“Not at all,” Mayfair drawls. “I’d rather you didn’t get out the flame thrower.”
“It would be inconvenient,” Richmond agrees.
I nod and turn. I’m halfway to the door, because we’re done with this conversation and I have Private Investigators to hire and instructions to give to my men, when Richmond’s voice calls after me.
“Mortlake.”
I don’t trust myself to go back, but I stop, head bowed. I’m vibrating with the need to do something. Anything. I have to get my men scouring London street by street, though in the pit of my stomach I’m aware it won’t do any good.
She isn’t in London. Her cleared-out room after she was sacked is obvious. I’ll check that no one took her, but I think I’d know in my heart if she was in danger.
Even so. I need her home. With me.
“Do you care about her?” he asks.
I jerk my head in a nod.
I hate this. I hate that these men know how I feel about Emily before she does. Because if she were aware of how I love her, surely, she’d have come to me before leaving.
“We’ll find your girl,” Richmond promises.
My throat tightens.
And it’s only as I leave that I realise there’s another reason I have to find her. And soon. Because when I had her over the desk yesterday, there were words of love and filth, gravelly declarations and demands.
And no protection.
She could be pregnant.
8
EMILY
Three weeks later
The app notification said seven days late, and I nearly had a heart attack.
Admittedly, I’ve been busy since arriving home. My mother has me cleaning, fetching her things, and cooking food almost every minute of the day. In between times, I’ve applied for jobs, and I guess amongst the glut of notifications of “You’ve submitted your application” and “Thank you for your interest but your inquiry was unsuccessful” that I sadly swiped off my phone’s home screen, I must have missed the reminders about my period.
It’s not like I’m regular as clockwork, but I did bring up my breakfast yesterday morning. Probably it was that the milk was a bit sour. As I paid for the home test—just one, because it’ll be negative, I’m late because I’m stressed—embarrassment flushed down the back of my neck. It was like everyone in the shop knew I was single and had only had sex once.
“Emily!” My mother’s plaintive voice comes through the closed bathroom door.
“I’m in the loo! I’ll be there in a minute,” I call. Tension spreads over my forehead.
People spend years trying for a baby. There’s IVF and all that stuff because it’s often difficult.
I’m not pregnant.
