Page 25 of Baby Bump for the Mafia Boss

“Trust me. He loves you,” Jessa whispers in my ear as we hug.

I shake my head. “Your fashion eye is very sound, the other bits, I’m not so sure.”

“You’ll see.” Jessa gives me an impish smile.

And in the car on the way back to Dane’s house, I try to see what she sees. I sneak looks at my boss. But his grey eyes seem as cool as ever.

There’s nothing convenient about my feelings, and even though he just wants an heir, I would love Jessa to be right. I wish I were something meaningful to Dane, like he is for me. The dark sun around which all things pivot.

12

DANE

I’m getting into this expectant father role. There are stacks of books beside my bed. Excellent for when I can’t stop thinking about Stephie, and how gorgeous she looks with that little bump. How much I want to run my hands over her possessively.

Knowing she’s just next door is torture, but it’s also peace. For the first time in four years, she’s where she belongs—with me. In my house, even if not in my bed.

Yet. We’re going to get to that.

There’s a thread between us. An understanding. It’s simple, like when she passes me the milk over breakfast without my asking. And it’s also complex, like when our gazes meet and heat burns along that link, hot and immediate.

She still won’t talk about the biological father of the baby, which pulls me in two directions. It’s good, because I’m the only father her child will ever have or need. And it means she can’t care about him much. She doesn’t seem to pine for him, and I’ve been monitoring her phone calls, and she hasn’t contacted anyone. Admittedly, it’s only been a few days.

On the other hand, I haven’t found the man who deserted her to disembowel him yet. She might have said she didn’t want that,but I am who I am. Stephie is mine, and an insult to her is a plea for death.

I’m being patient. The results of the paternity test will take a few more days. I instructed them to check against the whole London database, including everyone in Beckton. If one of my men got her pregnant, I’ll make him regret it.

The test is based on blood from Stephie, and I’m going a bit insane thinking about it. The blood of the foetus—ugly word but I guess they’re not exactly designed for elegance at this stage—transfers into her blood. So the DNA of the father isinside her.

The jealousy of knowing that some other man is there,inher, forever, is almost unbearable.

Whoever this bastard is, he won’t see her smile, have her in his house, or spend every day with her. Without any discussion, she’s continued with her job as my assistant, and in turn, I’ve been making preparations.

“What is it?” Stephie asks as I take her upstairs after work.

“Look for yourself.” I step back and let Stephie open the door into the new nursery, and she gasps gratifyingly.

“Oh my god! It’s amazing!” Her head twitches side to side as she takes in the details in a chaotic order. The mural of the sea, complete with birds, blue sky, and boats. A sailing yacht and a fishing boat. And beneath the waves, green and turquoise fish lurk beside rocks and seaweed.

There are blue chests of drawers, and a wardrobe. A changing table, and all the bits and pieces the decorator told me we’d need.

“This is magical.” She trails a finger over a lovingly painted seagull bobbing on a wave.

“I’m glad you like it.”

She turns to me, eyes narrowed. “It’s very blue, though.”

“It is.” I restrain my smile, because I know where this conversation is going, and I’m looking forward to the next part.

“Did you sneak a look at the baby’s gender somehow?”

“No,” I reply innocently. “Why would you say that?”

“Because this is a room for a boy.”

“Gender stereotypes are so damaging, don’t you think?” I drawl. “This could be a girl’s room.” It isn’t. But we’ll get to that. It’s too much fun winding Stephie up.

“A little girl can’t have this room! Her friends might tease her!”