Page 13 of My Fake Mafia Daddy

Arlo giggles and buries himself in his palms. "It's a stupid trip to the zoo." He shakes his head in amusement. "I havesooomany journal entries for you to go through. Seriously. I might not talk a lot, but I unleash universes when I take out my ballpoint pen."

I flip through Arlo's journal, skimming each and every entry it contains. In this book, I find evidence of the kindest, cutest boy on this planet. Arlo's so much more than a silly, lanky-limbed twenty-one-year-old who trips over his feet when trying to enter nightclubs, or who's too poor to afford to live in a decent neighborhood. He has a good heart, and he deserves more than what he has.

He deserves a Daddy.

I turn to face Arlo. "When's your birthday, cutie?"

"August third."

I tap the journal, then wrap my arm around Arlo's shoulders once again. "There's more than four year's worth of entries in here, boy. You must've started this when you were still in high school."

Arlo blushes and buries his face into my shoulder. "Secret. Don't tell."

I let out a groan as I pull the blanket up over our bodies. "Why?"

Arlo sniffles and stares at the ground. "I had to find an escape from school. The bullying was relentless. I stumbled across age play while walking past a toy store in Manhattan called Little Land. I had to try it."

I've heard of Little Land. In fact, Gianluca's friend Nikolai has a boy named Christian, and they play with their friends there quite often.

"Little Land is an adult store." I keep my voice stern. "They didn't let you go inside when you were in high school, did they?"

If they did, we'd have serious problems. I'd call the authorities if they were letting minors inside.

Arlo shakes his head. "No." He blushes again as he turns his blue eyes up to me. "I bought my stuffies and pacifiers from other parts of the city. I planned to go to Little Land when I turned eighteen, but I didn't have money for it. It's super expensive… but I'd still like to go."

That settles it. I thought I was dead after my ex cheated on me. But now I realize I hadn't met the right boy.

Hell. Maybe my ex-boyfriend was never the right boy for me. Maybe I had to date that asshole to be ready to date Arlo.

One thing's certain. As soon as Arlo is comfortable, I'm taking him to Little Land so we can play the entire afternoon. I want to see this beautiful angel open up to me, and spread his wings.

One thing at a time. Thirty days, and don't you forget it.

I close Arlo's journal, then hand it back to him. "My maid isn't here yet, so I'll prepare breakfast today, boy. Do waffles sound good?"

Arlo nods. "Yes, Daddy. That sounds amazing."

I move to pull the blanket off the couch. But before I can, Arlo coughs and brings his right hand to his throat.

He swallows hard, and closes his eyes as if concentrating on something. He tries to clear his throat again, but to no avail.

Concern knits my brows together. "Is something wrong, boy?"

Arlo bites his lower lip, then rests his chin on his right fist. "I need to take my medication now." His eyes fill with sadness. "I can't talk for the next ten minutes or so until it kicks in. And please don't make any bacon with the waffles. I love to eat it, but it hurts me too much. It's too hard to resist the temptation."

Medication. Something burrows into me, and confusion mars my brow. What is Arlo talking about?

I kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand. "No problem, sweet boy. I'll start cooking. Come out when you're ready."

I mean this in two ways. First, I want my boy to come to the table when his medication kicks in. But I also want him to wait until he's comfortable to open up about why he takes medication. I'd never want to pressure him before he's ready.

Arlo closes his eyes. "Thank you. I'll rest my voice for a little longer on this couch."

Adjusting my erection so Arlo doesn't see it, I pry myself off the couch and head to the kitchen. As I mix the whole-wheat flour, baking soda, organic sugar, vanilla extract, walnuts, and fresh blueberries, I can't help but wonder about Arlo's words.

Arlo takes medication so his throat doesn't hurt in the morning. But why?

I wrack my brain as I plug my heart-shaped waffle iron in, trying to ascertain what this could be. I decide to text Gianluca to see if he can help. If nothing else, my brother should be able to refer Arlo to a specialist.

I pray everything will be all right.

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