Page 4 of Baby Bump for the Mafia Boss

I smile tightly. It’s true that it snows in Moscow and rains in London. All the weather there is soft compared to practically every other country in the world. Rarely very hot, almost neververy cold. It’s like the personality of the English arose from our middling weather.

“We’re stopping off in Edinburgh for extra snow,” I joke. Actually, to refuel and check up on the Scottish mafias allied with London. “I have a taste for it now.”

The Volk leader insulting England doesn’t matter. We got what we wanted. Safe passage over Eastern Europe for expanding London’s interests—more specifically Beckton’s, after the Harlesden mafia boss messed up a previously neutral relationship by stealing their ballerinas. One who became his wife.

But I’m a trader by instinct, and I needed the route fixed. This deal has opened up the area with a minimum of fuss and concession. I know many in London have shifted to doing everything digitally, but people still need stuff. And as long as they want illegal goods, Beckton will be here to supply them.

My stomach is uncomfortable and my head not as clear as usual. I can’t tell if it’s generalised wariness from being with a fellow predator, or something else. I’ve only eaten and drank from the items we brought with us, but I feel unsteady, and I’m fighting the urge to snatch Stephie to me and run to an unspecified safe location.

My princess. The woman I would protect above all others.

Even from myself.

Indulging my weakness for Stephie would probably get us both killed, so it’s a good thing I have control.

It’s only when we’re in the helicopter, and have risen into the air, that I allow myself to breathe a bit. Not fully, since we’re not back in London yet. The adrenaline I usually enjoy from these situations is making me jumpy. My eyes are twitching.

I don’t attempt to discuss business with Stephie, because the helicopter is so bloody noisy, but I glance over at her, briefly. Just enough to get a little fix of her beauty. Her blue eyes, quickand bright and clever. Her skin that invites my gaze. Her hair that begs for my fingers to run through the straight brown silky strands. My hands clench into fists.

I’m never going to touch her.

Instead, as ever, I roll the agreements with Volk around in my head for a while. It takes me a moment to notice the darkening cloud we’re flying into.

“Is this an issue?” I ask my pilot. He’s experienced. Has been with me for over a decade. The other man I have with me for security is in the front, and Stephie and I are in the back.

“The weather radar says it’s nothing serious,” replies the pilot, but his voice sounds wrong.

“What’s wrong?” I glance out of the window and down this time. We’re over the North Sea, and the grey-blue water looks incredibly cold and dangerous. Not where we want to be.

“Uh…” He doesn’t reply for a second, and I wait. Best to avoid panic. “My vision is shaky, Boss.”

I swear under my breath. That’s not good.

“Have you been poisoned?” Fear shudders up my spine. “Was anything left unattended?”

“Shouldn’t have been,” my bodyguard states the obvious.

“There’s no point in apportioning blame now. We need to land as soon as possible, so you can recover.” I’m trying to figure out the best course of action, but my brain is stuffed with cotton wool.

“I’m fine!” the pilot protests, but that’s not true. It’s taking a lot of effort for him to remain in control.

“Give me the map.” I lean forwards and hold out my hand for the tablet holding the flight plan.

As soon as I have it, I appraise the situation. We’re too far from Norway to go back. There are islands, but given we’re closer to mainland Scotland, I pause. There aren’t any decent-sized towns, and if my men have been poisoned by the faithless Volk Bratva, they need medical attention, fast.

“Can you make it to Inverness?” I ask. “That would be better for access to hospitals.”

“Yes, I think so.”

I’m not certain about his answer, but I nod.

Glancing to the side, I find Stephie is looking around my arm at the map. “There are some small buildings there,” she points, “in case we can’t get that far. “As a backup.”

I note what she says, but shake my head. They could be ruins. Nothing. Private houses.

We continue in silence for a few more minutes, and when the blue of the sea turns into a grey line, then a smudge, the cliffs, a bit of fear I didn’t realise I was holding begins to drip away.

“How are you doing?” I ask as we fly into the hills. My own vision has gone blurry at the edges. I hope the pilot is having a less severe reaction to whatever this is than I am.