Page 35 of Baby Bump for the Mafia Boss

And I think it’s…

Oh my god. I press record on my phone then sneak forwards. I find my husband with our tiny baby in his arms. He’s jigging her as he sings in a low baritone.

“Old MacDonald had a mafia.”

My eyes go wide as Dane sings on.

“And in that mafia, he had a knife. Ee-eye, ee-eye oh.”

Aknife? I’m torn between laughing my head off and covering my baby’s ears as he continues.

“With a stab-stab here, and a stab-stab there.” The milk is in the warmer, and he’s holding Patricia with one hand. With his free hand he’s making stabbing motions, looking down affectionately at Patricia. “Here a stab, there a stab, everywhere a stab?—”

He cuts off abruptly, and turns.

Patricia makes a cry of disappointment that her entertainment has stopped and throws a miniature fist against her dad’s shoulder.

I wince.

She knows what she likes, our baby.

“Princess,” he says, a severe rumble.

“No, don’t stop,” I reply. “This is the only time you’ll ever be able to sing this, and we need to get the whole lot on camera for the kids to watch when they’re old enough.”

He dips his head to kiss Patricia and laughs softly. His baby snuggles into him. “She needs distracting while the milk warms, and this is the only thing that stops her yelling.”

Dane is head over heels for our daughter. He was from the beginning.

“Singing age-inappropriate songs?” I say.

“Come here.” He huffs into Patricia’s downy hair, then beckons me with one crooked finger, pale eyes flashing.

I practically swoon. Is there anything more swoony than a huge, tough, mafia man, gently holding a baby? I think not.

When I reach his side, he shifts Patricia and scoops me to him with his free arm.

“My wife,” he murmurs, and kisses me. It’s long and passionate, and makes me giddy. “I will sing another verse of Old MacDonald had a mafia for you.”

“Yass!” I grin.

“But there will be a price to pay, later. Old Macdonald had awifeisn’t appropriate for kids…”

EPILOGUE

DANE

Nine years later

This time when we’re snowed in at a cabin, it’s a very happy situation, and no one has died.

“Daddy, there’s so much snow, I don’t think we can leave the chalet!” Patricia bounces on her toes, still wearing her pink Christmas-themed pyjamas, as she comes into the kitchen. The Christmas tree is lit with multi-coloured lights behind her, and the presents that were stacked beneath it are now distributed around the lounge and the bedrooms.

“What do you mean?” I feign ignorance, leaving the pancake to cook and turning to my little daughter.

“It’s snowing! There’s so much snow! It snowed all night.”

“Are you sure?”