The Billionaire’s Distraction (Power & Passion #5)

1. Chapter 1

They were tyrants. Pint-sized ones. Proof that evil can, sometimes, appear in juice-box form.

Tony Mancini stood at the wide window on the second floor of his house, muscular arms crossed as he watched the backyard drama unfold below.

The late-spring breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying the clean scent of freshly cut grass and blooming lilacs from the manicured park across the street.

Children’s laughter filled the air, mingling with the distant splash of a fountain and the rhythmic squeak of a swing set.

It should have smelled like money—order, privilege, safety.

But the reality? Chaos.

The Peterson boys—mean little children, in Tony’s estimation—were at it again.

He’d watched as the pair lured a younger girl into their circle, pretending to play nice.

Their laughter had been shrill and convincing enough to trick her into believing she belonged.

For a good ten minutes, it almost looked sweet, the little girl with her pigtails bent seriously over the beginnings of a sandcastle.

She worked with surprising precision, smoothing and patting with small hands, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Tony knew better.

He recognized the shift the instant it happened—the sudden lean forward of the older boy, the narrowing of his eyes, the twitch of his shoulders like a predator testing its pounce.

Tony’s spine went rigid. He’d seen that exact body language too many times in grown men who thought they were untouchable.

Sure enough, the boy’s grubby hand scooped up a fistful of sand. His face split into a grin that was all cruelty, no innocence. A little psychopath in training.

The nanny moved fast. One moment the boy’s fist was cocked back, the next she grabbed his wrist, halting the swing.

Sand sifted uselessly between his chubby fingers and spilled harmlessly back into the box.

She bent low, her eyes blazing with a steely fire as she spoke quietly—sharp, firm words that Tony couldn’t hear through the soundproof glass but felt all the same.

He chuckled softly, dark amusement tugging at his mouth.

The woman wasn’t just a nanny; she was a damn gladiator in yoga pants.

The little girl looked up, wide-eyed but unhurt, her castle still intact, the turrets surprisingly symmetrical. That kid had real skill, Tony thought. No wonder the boys were jealous.

The younger one—who was three years old, maybe four—was slower to catch on, but after a hesitant glance at his brother’s captured hand, he opened his fist too, letting his own “weapon” spill back into the sandbox.

The nanny didn’t waste time. Straightening, she dusted her palms, then lifted both boys by their skinny arms with deceptive strength and marched them off to the swings.

Her dark hair sparkled in the sunshine, swaying against the curve of her back.

That backside—yeah, he’d noticed it before—was just one more reason his gaze lingered whenever she moved about the playground.

She said something to them then, her lips moving with calm authority.

Tony still couldn’t hear the words, not with his home’s thick glass and security-grade insulation blocking out all sound, but he didn’t need to.

He recognized the tone. Whatever quiet threat she’d delivered would hold the little monsters in check for—at best—twenty-four hours.

Tony exhaled slowly, the glass faintly fogging with his breath.

His instincts whispered that the boys were only a small glimpse of the real rot inside those minds.

And the woman? The one standing firm in the sunlight with two devils at her side—she might just be the only thing keeping them in check.

He knew the type. Those boys would grow up to be criminals.

Maybe the mild kind—the sort who cheated on taxes and “forgot” to tip the wait staff.

Or maybe they’d grow into the dangerous kind—corporate leaders who bilked every penny they could from their customers, laughing as they strapped on a hundred-thousand-dollar watch while some single mother scraped the sides of her dented can of beans for one more spoonful, so her kids wouldn’t go hungry.

Tony shifted his weight, broad shoulders filling the space.

At six foot three, with muscle layered on top of muscle, he looked like a man carved to intimidate.

His eyes—dark and sharp, never soft enough to be called chocolate—tracked every movement outside.

He didn’t need sound to understand what was happening.

Trouble announced itself in the tilt of a head, the twitch of a shoulder, the tightening of a jaw.

He had always excelled at reading those signals, a predator who could sense danger before it arrived.

Okay, so he wasn’t the best example of a “good” citizen. He was second-in-command of a sprawling mafia organization. Salvatore Romano was the mastermind—brilliant with strategy, ruthless with numbers. But Sal was also fair, unlike the CEOs Tony enjoyed tormenting on slow days. Just for fun.

Because Tony had recognized Sal’s genius years ago, he was now a billionaire several times over.

He could walk away from the violence and control if he wanted to.

But he didn’t want to. He liked it. He loved bending corrupt politicians until they snapped straight, enjoyed working with the police commissioners to fix and maintain the neighborhoods.

Bad things had been done, sure—but the balance sheet leaned toward making the world better, safer.

Because of his actions, more mothers were able to keep their lights on.

More kids had food. And more small business owners weren’t crushed under the boot of crooked bankers.

That’s what Tony fought for. That was why he could sleep at night.

And if he’d needed another reason, he had Sal. The man had pulled Tony out of the gutter. When they were younger, it had been Sal’s strategy and Tony’s fists that had kept them alive. That kind of history forged loyalty deeper than blood.

“She’s beautiful,” Sal murmured, cradling his infant daughter in his arms.

Tony barely glanced at his boss and best friend, his gaze still locked on the scene outside.

The pretty nanny had intercepted the Peterson boys again, this time dragging them away from the playground after they’d tried to push a smaller child off the “fort”.

Her grip was firm around their wrists, her expression a mixture of grim determination and worry.

“You going to help her out?” Sal asked, absently patting his daughter’s diapered backside.

Tony pulled his gaze away from the window. “No.”

Sal chuckled, amused, and turned toward his favorite leather chair. “Right. What’s her name?”

For a long moment, Tony didn’t answer. He watched as the nanny marched the boys back to their house a block away, her back straight, her steps brisk. When Sal arched one eyebrow, a silent challenge not to lie, Tony finally exhaled. His best friend knew him too damn well.

“Naomi Cross,” he blurted out, frowning as he turned back to the window, just in time to watch three other kids slide down the wide, plastic slide—on top of each other.

They tumbled into a heap at the bottom, shrieking with laughter, limbs tangled.

Every time one of them tried to stand, another dissolved into giggles and toppled the pile over again.

That was something he’d never have. Didn’t deserve, either. He’d been a bastard all his life. He’d done things. Bad things. Manipulated the world to carve out a profitable, comfortable life for himself and the people in the organization.

“Sal?” a soft, feminine voice called from the hallway.

Immediately, Tony’s best friend turned away from the window. “She just got home from the doctor’s office,” Sal explained, easing his infant daughter in Tony’s arms. “Watch Gianna while I go talk to Cata. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Tony opened his mouth to protest but Sal was already walking out the door. Tony was stunned that Sal would trust anyone with his precious child. But he trusted…him? Hold a six-week-old baby? What if Tony damaged her? Hell, he might corrupt her just by breathing on her.

But then he looked down.

Gianna’s tiny features were soft with sleep, her adorable fist curled by her cheek. She smelled sweetly of baby powder. Tony—six foot three, scarred hands, dark eyes that had seen too much—froze. His chest warmed with an unfamiliar glow.

“Well, damn,” he muttered, rocking her automatically. “You’re lethal, aren’t you?”

The baby sighed contentedly in her sleep, and Tony, the predator who’d shattered bones to build empires, melted into a human rocking chair.

“Just for a moment,” he grumbled, pacing the room.

He could handle this. He wouldn’t do diapers, and absolutely no bottles.

Oh, and no screaming. But if she continued her sleeping, that was a job he could handle.

And if swaying and bouncing kept her happy, then he’d sway and bounce.

He’d look like an idiot doing it, but Gianna wouldn’t tell anyone. Babies were great at keeping secrets.

He walked down the hallway and tapped on a hidden panel, putting in his personal code.

A moment later, a door ticked open. Tony stepped into the hallway, unconsciously pausing to ensure that the door clicked shut behind him, then walked carefully down the stairs to the state-of-the-art security room, Gianna snug in his arms. The place hummed with quiet efficiency, walls alive with screens and blinking lights, a nerve center that rivaled the CIA.

His men were at their stations, fingers flying over keyboards, eyes glued to surveillance feeds.

“Ben,” Tony called, lowering his voice a notch, hoping not to wake the little darling in his arms. “Check on Tom Peterson. Make sure he’s behaving. His boys are becoming an issue at the playground.”

The twenty-something tech whiz named Ben perked up instantly, his freckled face breaking into an eager grin. “Sure thing, boss.” He turned back to his monitors, almost rubbing his hands with glee. “I love checking in on Mr. Peterson.”

From the back, someone groaned. “The father! Not the nanny!”

Tony’s gaze turned to Lizzy, a pretty redhead whose freckles outnumbered even Ben’s. Everyone in the department knew she had a massive crush on Ben. Everyone except Ben.

Tony smirked. Those two were perfect for each other—if they’d ever look up from their screens long enough to notice. They both had the same sharp moral compass. Same obsession with catching bad guys. And they shared a similar hatred of the outdoors.

Every time someone suggested a hike or a picnic for “team building,” Lizzy and Ben launched into a joint tirade about bugs.

Not just mosquitoes. All bugs. Lizzy once argued that spiders had a personal vendetta against her.

Ben, dead serious, claimed that hiking was just “sweaty cardio without Wi-Fi.”

Tony glanced down at the baby nestled against his chest. Gianna’s tiny lips twitched in her sleep, dreaming of milk or maybe world domination—difficult to tell at this age.

He huffed a laugh, stunned at how something so small could completely undo him.

He was a blackened soul who melted by a seven-pound human burrito in a pink blanket.

But sentimentality had limits. He might cradle Sal’s daughter like she was spun glass, but outside these walls, Tony spied, schemed, and manipulated. He knew every secret in Chicago worth knowing. He knew where all the skeletons were buried and had no problem digging them up if needed.

Still, he scowled when he caught Ben’s ears perking at Naomi’s name. Tony didn’t like anyone thinking about Naomi Cross in a way that involved hormones. Especially not one of his tech nerds.

He moved to Ben’s station, hugging the still-sleeping baby tighter, and bent low. “Keep your eyes off Ms. Cross.” His voice was a low, lethal whisper.

Ben froze, fingers suspended guiltily over the keyboard, like a kid caught stealing cookies. He swallowed loudly. Finally, he stammered out, “Sure thing, boss.”

Tony straightened, patting Gianna’s diapered butt as he stalked back to the center of the room. He loved this space. Banks of monitors glowed like hundreds of watchful eyes. The place hummed with the soft whir of servers and the quiet clicking of keyboards. Energy buzzed here—focused, relentless.

And, of course, his nerds.

Half of them hadn’t wanted to sign up with a “criminal organization.” They were straight-A kids who used to win math contests and now got paid obscene amounts to hack bad guys.

And, yeah, sometimes to “borrow” passwords from a corrupt aldermen, but that was practically community service.

Tony knew the truth—these analysts had the same moral compass he did: bend the rules in order to break the bastards and protect the innocent.

Now, rocking Sal’s baby in one massive arm, Tony looked like a mafia Santa Claus overseeing his workshop while the elves coded. Absolute control, yes—but with lullabies.

On Ben’s screen, the Peterson household blinked to life. Tony’s mouth tightened as the data rolled across the monitors: numbers, timestamps, images.

Mr. Peterson’s bank accounts were ballooning at an alarming rate—twenty percent growth in seven weeks. That kind of spike didn’t happen by accident. It reeked of something rotten, and Tony could sense the blood in the water.

His lips pursed. “Interesting.”

He adjusted Gianna against his chest, the baby sighing contentedly, then ordered, “Dig deeper into Peterson Industries. No way his retail sports stores are making that kind of money. Unless he’s selling sneakers laced with gold dust.”

Ben nodded, fingers flying across the keyboard. “On it, boss.”

The system lit up, sifting through product intakes, shipping receipts, call logs, and customer transactions. Tony’s gaze sharpened. Whatever Peterson was up to, it wasn’t Little League sponsorships.

And Tony Mancini, cradling a newborn while ordering a financial strip search, almost smiled. Parenthood suited him.

Almost.