Page 182 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

His throat moved as he swallowed. “I take after my biological dad,” he said. “I wish these two were my real dads. Maybe I’d have better genes.”

Hudson’s face changed. Lincoln’s hand flexed against my back.

I leaned forward. “You have perfect genes, Damien.”

He looked at me like I had said something absurd.

“You do,” I said. “You just need to read the room a little more and respect people, and then you’ll be fine.”

Ivan coughed into his napkin.

Damien nodded slowly. “I really am sorry.”

I studied him. “You came here and said this in front of everyone, so I believe you.”

“Thank you.” He looked embarrassed but he was trying. “Friends?”

“Friends.” I nodded.

His shoulders dropped. Then he frowned. “So you’re really called Mary and not Marli?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

I stared at him.

“Damien, if my father knew I was in Boston and dating you, he would probably have killed you. Is that a good enough reason?”

His eyes widened. “Shit. No way.”

“Yep.”

He looked at Hudson and Lincoln, then at Artem, then at Ivan, then at Gregor, who was buttering bread with the calm of a man who knew exactly how many ways a person could disappear.

Damien swallowed as he looked back at his dads. “Sucks to be you two.”

“Damien,” Hudson said.

“Kidding.”

“Poorly,” Lincoln said.

Mac, who had been listening with the focused attention of a child collecting adult nonsense for later use, leaned forward. “Apparently my bad Irish grandpa is mafia and my bad Russian grandpa is Bratva. But he’s dead now.”

Damien went pale. “Your what?”

Mac looked at Maeve. “Am I allowed to say dead?”

Maeve closed her eyes. “Not at dinner.”

“But he is.”

Artem took a sip of wine.

“We have rules,” Ivan said.

Damien picked up the dessert menu. “Have you ordered yet?”