I do it fast and efficiently, smoothing my hands over her body. My groin aches in my pants, pushing urgently against my briefs, but I try not to focus on that. I glide my hands over her plump gorgeous breasts, her hips, her legs, her ass. She glares at me… or tries to.
She can’t hide the lust punching through her.
“Are you done?” she snaps, voice breathier than she’d probably like.
“Yeah.”
“Satisfied?”
“Not even close.”
She rolls her eyes, the corner of her lip twitching. “I mean… are you convinced we can talk now? That’s the only reason I let you do this ridiculous thing.”
“Yeah, I’m convinced.”
We return to the café as someone else enters, giving us a strange look.
At the table, she leans forward. “So then, are you ready to tell the truth?”
I reach into my jacket pocket and take out an envelope. “This is the death certificate my man showed me when I ordered him to check on you. He is – was – one of my most trusted men, which is why I didn’t verify the information myself.”
She takes it, hands trembling slightly. Her eyes dart across the page as she reads. “Wow,” she murmurs. “This looks legit.”
“That’s what I thought,” I tell her. “I swear, Ava, I wanted to see you again. Badly. If I’d known you were alive…”
“How do I know you didn’t forge this last night just to back up your lie?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Hell, you don’t. But I didn’t. I swear, Ava.”
She looks at me, eyes glistening, sassy and hurt and heartbreakingly beautiful.
“Okay, fine,” she says. “What about the rest? Who are you?Whatare you?”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I would never normally, under any circumstances, tell a civilian what I’m about to tell you.”
“So I’m special?” she says sarcastically.
“Cut the sass for a second.”
She softens, murmurs, “I’m sorry.”
“No, Ava, you don’t apologize to me. Don’t you dare.”
“Sorry for saying sorry, then,” she says with a small smile.
I grin, can’t help it. “But you, us, our kid, this situation overrides everything. So yes…” I take a breath, wondering if I’m really doing this, if I’ve lost my mind. “I’m the Don of the Bellini mafia.”
She gasps, though I know she expected this.
“But it’s not what you think. As Don, I’ve changed things, made them better, built something new, something unique.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“We don’t hurt civilians. Or women. We don’t hurt anyone who didn’t sign up for this life. The bulk of our money comes from financial crime and blackmailing corrupt politicians. We then use that money to buy and sell art, then funnel it into legitimate businesses. It’s not like the movies, not anymore.”
She sits back quietly, her expression difficult to read. “The father of my baby is a mob boss,” she says quietly, as if to herself.
I nod. “You have to understand the risk I’m taking by telling you this.”
