Secret Baby for the Mafia Don (The Naughty List: Mafia Edition #2)

Chapter 1

MARCO

"Fuck."

The ledger stares back at me, columns of numbers that should command my full attention.

Instead, my mind wanders.

Even after nearly a year, I can’t sit at this desk and not have flashbacks to Gabriella sprawled across financial reports, hair fanned out in luxurious waves, laughing as I growled about work that needed doing.

"There's always more work, Marco." Her fingers had traced the perpetual furrow between my brows. "But there's only one tonight."

I have iron control except when it comes to her because of course I fucked her then and there.

The memories flood back now.

Fucking her on this desk.

Her sucking me off in my chair at this desk.

Me eating her sweet pussy as I sat in this chair with her on my desk… where my papers now sit.

I close my eyes, and she's here again.

I swear I can smell the scent of her perfume haunting me after all this time.

It seems like yesterday that she kicked off those ridiculous heels and padded around my office barefoot, leaving lipstick on my whiskey glass.

She'd perch on the edge of my desk, those long legs crossed, challenging me with questions about territory and business strategies that no Don's daughter should be asking.

Too smart for her own good. Too smart for mine.

I loosen my tie, unbutton my collar as pain sears through me.

What burns most isn't that she left. It's that look in her eyes when she did.

Like she was seeing a different person.

Someone she hated.

“I was so wrong about you. It’s not that you don’t want people to know you. It’s that you don’t want people to realize you have no soul,” she’d said.

I’d been a child the last time someone’s words truly bruised me.

But I wasn’t going to let her know she was succeeding in inflicting pain. “I never made any promises.”

She laughed then. “They wouldn’t mean anything if you did.” Then she was gone.

That’s not to say I haven’t seen her since she stormed out of my office accusing me of betraying her for reasons I’ve never asked about.

But whereas before her flirty eyes would watch me, now they’re filled with hate and distrust.

I stand and move away from the desk filled with memories, and I reach for the decanter, pouring three fingers of whiskey.

The amber liquid does little to burn away the memories.

Maybe I should have forced her to clarify her charges against me.

But a man has his pride, right?

Plus, I already knew I was in too deep with her, and it was scaring the hell out of me.

No, it was ideal that she left me. She saved me from myself.

My father's voice rings in my head. "Calabresi men aren’t pussies, Marco. They don't chase women. They don't beg. And there’s no such thing as love. Don’t fall for it.”

I’ve believed that shit my whole life.

Why wouldn’t I? My mother was a shell of a woman, her essence beaten away by my father, who tried to do the same to me.

But I was stronger, learned to navigate his mercurial and savage moods.

He didn’t give a shit about me, not when he had my older brother Tony, who treated me nearly as poorly as my father.

Fuck ‘em both.

It must piss them off in hell where they now reside that I’m the Don because they believed they were invincible.

The Bratva showed them differently, killing them both.

I sigh. No, nothing in my life has shown me that love exists.

Except for a moment last year when Gabriella Monti stormed into my world with her law books and quick mind, challenging everything I thought I knew.

"You're afraid," she'd said once, curled against me in the dark. "Not of dying. Of living."

I'd laughed it off, even as I knew there was some truth to it. More accurately, I’m afraid of feeling.

The truth is, I never planned to give her more.

She was a temporary distraction. An itch that needed to be scratched.

Marriage? Children?

That’s for other men like Roman, my best friend and second in line.

He’ll take over from me once I go.

I glance upward, even as I know my father is in hell.

I lift my glass to him. “Fuck you, old man. Your legacy ends with me.”

I can’t tell you how much satisfaction I get from knowing that. If he were here, he’d kill me for this because his legacy meant everything to him.

But even if I didn’t have the ultimate revenge on my father, I know I’m not capable of love like Roman is.

I’d rather live in my safe, emotionless world. For me, love is weakness.

The knock on my door is short, forceful, and relieving. I need to stop ruminating about Gabriella.

Roman enters, striding toward my desk, and places something on my papers.

I walk over to study the misshapen lump of dough covered in green frosting and what appears to be an entire container of silver sprinkles.

"What the fuck is this?"

"A Christmas tree." Roman smirks. "Angelica made it for her favorite Uncle Marco. She said, and I quote, 'He needs more Christmas in his life.'"

I stare at the monstrosity. I care for Roman and his eight-year-old daughter Angelica. It’s nice that she calls me “Uncle” even though I don’t do anything to deserve it.

But this… I don’t do saccharin family shit.

"Tell her thanks," I mutter, pushing it aside.

Roman drops into the chair across from me, stretching his legs out. "Remember when we used to enjoy Christmas? The parties, the women in those little red dresses—"

"I have work to do." I shuffle papers that don't need shuffling.

"When exactly did you turn into such a Scrooge?" He picks up a paperweight, tosses it between his hands.

“Probably the night my father beat the shit out of me for crying when I learned there was no such thing as Santa.”

His smirk drops and I see pity in his eyes. I hate pity.

“Your father was a piece of shit.”

“I know it. Yours wasn’t much better, him and your mom trying to take Angelica from you after Emilia died.”

He shrugs. “That was fucked up but not the same as you. I’m sorry.”

I wave away his apology. “It’s fine. How are Isabella and the baby?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.

His smile widens. “Perfect. Little Leo is 10 weeks old today.”

I frown. “How many weeks is Angelica?”

He snorts. “We stop counting by weeks when they have a few months under their belt. And then we switch to years.”

I think about that. “I wonder why we don’t switch to decades. Like how old is Roman? He’s four and half decades.”

“That would make you nearly five decades.” He sets my paperweight down. “But seriously, you need to get into the holiday mood. Leave your father’s shit behind and join in the fun with us. This year, Antonio is hosting the Christmas party. You going?”

My jaw clenches, but this time it has nothing to do with holiday spirit.

It has to do with seeing Gabriella, Antonio’s daughter. "I always go."

"Yeah, but last year you spent the entire night looking like you wanted to murder the champagne fountain. Angelica asked if you had a stomach ache."

I grunt, remembering the night vividly.

Gabriella in that emerald dress, laughing with some fucker her father had introduced her to.

The way she'd coyly catch me watching her.

“Are we ready for the meeting today?” I ask, once again moving to another subject.

The other Dons of La Corona are meeting here today.

The council of the four families was founded by the Calabresi, Monti, Vitale, and Ferraza families two generations ago.

The goal was to maintain peace and prosperity through cooperation rather than competition, and so far, it’s worked, although my father nearly destroyed it.

It’s probably why the other families tried to remove me when I became Don.

Thanks to Antonio, I stayed and I believe I’ve been a productive member.

“Yep.” Roman’s voice turns serious. “By the way, Antonio called me this morning. He forgot we had the sit-down with the Russians last week. Started talking about it like it hadn't happened yet."

My stomach tightens. Antonio’s mind has been progressively failing over the last eighteen months.

I’ve encouraged him to see a doctor, but the old goat refuses.

“Why do I want to be told I’m losing my marbles? Ignorance is bliss, Marco,” he’d said to me.

"How bad?" I ask.

"I covered. Said we were discussing the next meeting." Roman leans forward. "It's getting worse, Marco."

I rub my hands over my face. “I know.”

“Have you talked to Luca?” Roman asks about Antonio’s son who currently runs the family business in Italy.

“Several times.” For the life of me, I don’t know why he doesn’t come home.

He says he loves it where he is, but I get the feeling he's hiding or running from something here. “I owe Antonio, but there’s only so long I can cover for him.”

Roman nods. “And there’s Gabriella.”

My eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s smart. She could run Antonio’s business if we weren’t stuck in archaic, sexist traditions.”

He’s not wrong.

"She's like a hawk with him lately," Roman continues. "Last week at the Thanksgiving event for needy families, she practically intercepted every conversation he tried to have with you. Stood between you two like some kind of human shield. She doesn’t do that with Dom or Leo,” he says of Don Dominic Vitale and Dom Leonardo Ferraza.

I shrug like it’s nothing. "I've noticed."

"What exactly does she think you're going to do? Garrote her father over pumpkin pie?"

The image would be amusing if it didn't feel personal. “I have no idea.” I might know if I’d asked.

But asking would suggest I care about her opinion, and I don’t.

Or at least I don’t want to.

I stand and put on my jacket, adjusting the cuffs. “It’s time for the others to arrive.”

We leave my home office and head the short distance to the meeting room.

I have an official business office downtown, but we all prefer to do La Corona business in our homes.

Like the Christmas party, each Don takes a turn hosting and this time, it’s me.

Moments later, Dominic enters with Leo, who starts gushing about his new grandson whom Roman and Isabella named after him.

“Angelica made a cookie for her Grandpa Leo,” Roman says, handing him a plastic baggie with a red and white blob.