It’s a soft, plaintive cry. High-pitched, and sad. Our youngest son.
Dropping a kiss onto Taggie’s shoulder, I slide backwards, then roll out of bed. Taggie murmurs a complaint in her sleep, and I tuck the covers around her to keep her warm.
Pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants and a T-shirt, I make my way to Alessio’s room, next to ours, and look down at my wide-awake baby. In the glow of the nightlight, his dark eyes are the mirror of mine, and he waves his tiny fists up at me.
“Midnight treats, huh. It’s a Richmond thing,” I murmur, and reach down. Lifting him to lay on my chest. “You want some milk. Just as greedy as tuo Babbo.” His dad.
The rest of our kids are as fluent in Italian as they are English, and I like to ensure they hear plenty of their grandmother’s language.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I heat up his milk, holding him with one arm while doing everything with the other. After seven children, we have it down to a fine art, with a special milk warmer and bottles that turned out to be an excellent investment.
As we wait, I think through some of the mafia politics that have been bothering me, asking Alessio in Italian for his opinion. He cries a bit—getting fussy about waiting for his snack—when I mention Grant Lambeth, and I nod in agreement.
Yes. Entirely my feelings on the matter too.
I tell him he’ll see his great-grandmother tomorrow. Taggie’s grandmother still won’t move in with us—fiercely independent—but she comes to visit her family several times a week.
When it’s ready, I pull out his milk.
“You don’t mind, do you?” I wink at my infant son as I take a sip. The milk is obscenely sweet, just like the woman who made it. And it’s the perfect temperature. I screw on the teat and Alessio greedily sucks from the bottle. It’s not long before he has a full belly, and his eyes are closing.
I lay him down into his cot, and he blinks up at me and smiles.
Fucking hell, Taggie and these creatures she makes. They’re all destined to ruin me and cause my heart to explode. So cute. So loveable.
Thankfully he slips off to sleep quickly, and I pad back to the bedroom Taggie and I share. She still has her own suite of roomsone floor up, and the kids have rooms on the same floor as us. There are nine bedrooms on this level, so one more to fill.
I’m looking forward to our last baby. We’ve been holding off, savouring the final time I’ll breed her in truth.
I creep into bed and pull Taggie to me. She sleeps quite heavily, for a girl who stayed awake half the night when we first were together. She knows I have a taste for having her when she’s asleep though, and sometimes…
But not tonight, unfortunately.
“You’re awake,” I rumble.
“How do you always know?” she complains.
I just do. “Taggie, you’re my wife.” I nuzzle her neck. She’s warm and sweet and tempting. “I know, and love, everything about you.”
Hey, thanks for reading! Fancy an extension to the epilogue into your inbox? It’s free and spicy!
If you enjoyed Dom’s obsession and taking what he needs, you’ll love Eager Housewife. Or for another super protective, “touch her and die” mafia boss, Held by the Bratva will make you swoon.
SPOILED BY MY STALKER
1
LILY
I’m caught.
“Who has access to this room?” my cousin says, his voice muffled but distinctive through the shut door.
My chest tightens and my toes scrunch in my sneakers. I withdraw my hand from the doorknob. I was about to go into the living room of my cousin’s house—it’s been mine too for the nine years since my parents died—but I think that might be a bad idea.
Panic is making my head fuzzy, so much bloody rushing around I can barely see. Honesty is supposed to be the best policy, but when you’ve been stealing from a nineteen-year-old mafia boss still attempting to prove himself in London, that rule is dead. Or you are.
“The two of us, and your father when he was alive, god rest his soul,” my aunt lists.
