Page 2 of Baby Bump for the Mafia Boss

Into me.

My heart twinges. That’s not what he appreciates about me. He enjoys my expertise in his likes and dislikes, even though he only expresses that through my generous salary and curt assessments of how good something was, and not things that most people get in their jobs, like basic human decency, acknowledgement, or performance reviews.

And definitely not with words like “good girl” or actions like orgasms.

Apparently, his previous assistants met with unlucky ends after they stopped working for him. Car crashes, a fatal case of sepsis from a mosquito bite, and a house fire. It ought to make me scared, but the problem is, from the moment I saw him, Dane Bridger has been the one person in the world I wanted. The only man I’ve ever felt that twist of excitement and desire for.

“Are you happy in this job?” he says abruptly.

I freeze. There’s a right answer here, and I’m unsure what it is.

“Yes,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. I get to see Dane. No, it’s not prestigious, being an assistant, but I don’t mind that. My parents look down on me, but that’s not the job’s fault. I think they would with almost anything I did.

“You don’t want more?” he demands.

“The salary is good. You let me have the time off to do more study for my Masters in Business Administration,” I point out. It’s not a law degree, so it’s worth nothing as far as my parents are concerned, but I liked studying for it. It was a lot of work, yes, but it was worthwhile. Applying dry business concepts to the Beckton is a unique challenge, and I relish it. “So I have more qualifications. And…” I nearly say that I get to travel, but that’s past tense now. “I’ve been to lots of countries that I wouldn’t have otherwise.”

I didn’t even have a passport before I came to work for Dane.

His expression shifts. For a second, I’m sure I can see grief on his face. Deep, and painful.

Then it’s gone, and he’s his usual serious self. And that’s how I know that when he told me he couldn’t remember that night, he was lying. Because why would he have totally changed his behaviour towards me if he really had no recollection? I told him that nothing happened, so it’s only if he knew that wasn’t true would he have felt awkward around me and excluded me from his business trips since.

A small voice in my head mentions that us having sex could be irrelevant, and perhaps he felt bad that I was nearly killed—and two of his men were actually killed—by that attempt at reconciliation with the Volk bratva. But it’s not as though we weren’t all aware of the risks. The Beckton mafia are quite clear about what sort of organisation they are, and when I applied for the position of executive assistant, although it didn’t say “you’ll help a mafia boss with day-to-day stuff, occasionally including communications with assassins” I knew. On the other hand, I was exhausted with my parents being snide about how little I earned after getting my “degree in gossip” as they call Psychology, and I really needed a win that could show them I wasn’t as useless a disappointment as they thought me.

I don’t think anything less than being the Prime Minister would have impressed them, outside of me being a lawyer.

I shouldn’t have promised to go into law afterward my degree. It was always unlikely that I’d want to go and do something that didn’t interest me, in a situation that didn’t suit me. I’m far better in the real world, figuring out practical problems.

“I thought you might want to move to another position. Higher salary.” His shoulders are still, and he has that look he gets when he’s negotiating an important deal. Like all his focusis poured onto the person, and he’s almost holding them, willing them to bend to his requirements.

My stomach sinks. Oh good, more failures. I wrap my blazer around myself closer. I’m not cold exactly, but being told I need a new role by the mafia boss who took my virginity and has my heart? Chilling.

He doesn’t want me. Not as a lover, or even as his assistant.

I’m breaking inside.

I smile. “Sure! A new role would give different challenges.”

Maybe ones that aren’t hiding my bump from the bump’s father, and missing him so much I checked online if I could be causing permanent physical damage.

Or hiding that I love him.

“I’ll arrange for you to be the head of the HR team. No travel with that, obviously.” He doesn’t look at me, instead shuffling items on his desk.

Tears prickle behind my eyes. He might never say thank you, but I know I’ve been a good assistant to Mr Bridger, and it’s been my job for four years. Already, not seeing him every day or travelling with him has been agony. Our daily emails and occasional phone calls to sort things have been better than nothing.

I am pathetically in love with my boss, and clearly, he doesn’t care about me, even as an employee.

“Thank you, Mr Bridger.” My voice wobbles. I turn to leave.

“How have you been?” There’s an echo of some emotion I don’t recognise in his voice.

“Fine.” I swallow hard and look back reluctantly.

He’s searching my face.

I’ve missed him so much. We worked together constantly for years. He joked. I told him more than I should have about myself. He had me buy pizza when we were working late, and ate at restaurants with me, going through work documents. Ihoarded the little insights into his life he gave me. The revelation that he had a deprived childhood. The tiny pieces of information about how he built the Beckton mafia into the power it is now, taking over by outmanoeuvring the previous kingpin when he was only nineteen. The ruthless things he did.