Phantom's Baby: A Mafia Secret Baby Romance (Mob City Book 3) (28 page)

I grasped it with my hands and he sighed with desire, his eyes closed. I wanted to do it again, and again, I wanted to feel loved and wanted, but most of all – appreciated. Roman had already made me feel cared for in a way that I hadn't for a long time, too long.

And then he was inside me, gently at first, and tenderly as he pushed his full, thick length as far as it would go.

I gasped as he filled me up, and "
Roman
," escaped my lips in a hiss of pleasure. He held my arms down, and I wiggled with frustration. I wanted to reach up and pull his head down onto mine, but he lowered his lips as though we had some kind of telepathic connection. I kissed him as though the world was ending, at the same time as the heat of his cock filled me up from inside and he began to thrust. I was wet, perhaps as wet as I'd ever been, and I couldn't do anything with my hands, so I began to thrust with my hips, joining him in the middle as slivers of fire began to emanate from my pussy.

I didn't know what was hotter now, his cock or the slit between my legs, because it all seemed to melt into one single, perfect whole. And then he collapsed on his elbows, still thrusting, but this time deeper as the angle changed, and my hands were free, and I grabbed his toned, hard ass and pulled him into me. And then I felt his heat explode inside me, and stars fill the horizon, and every nerve on my entire body explode with pain, and my skin begin to burn with the perfect heat of lust.

It happened so fast, and perhaps I was drunk on the unfamiliar alcohol, and lust, and the simple warmth of being wanted again, but I forgot one thing.

Protection.

E
llie

Ten weeks later
.

"Investigative journalism's dying, Ellie," my boss, Mark sighed, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. He was the editor, and I didn't relish his job. He was right, in a way. Newspaper rooms across America were shrinking, contracting and letting good reporters go. The Internet was killing good journalism, and it was happening fast, and every day. "The Herald just doesn't have the money to pay for this stuff anymore."

I replied hotly, the only way I knew how. It wasn't just my job that was threatened, I could handle that – it was
way
more important than that. If the Herald didn't cover the corruption in this town, then no one would, and Alexandria would just sink ever deeper, ever quicker into the mire of corruption and violence that it had been stuck in for almost half a decade. "Oh yeah? If that's the case, why do we break sales records every time one of my articles is on the front cover, Mark?"

It was a good question, but I already knew the answer, and so did Mark. I was fighting a losing battle. I had no doubt that our little department was going to be hit by the next round of departmental budget cuts, whether it happened today, next week or next year, it was only a matter of time.

"Sure, we sell another ten thousand copies, Ellie. But you only write one a month. What are we supposed –."

"I only write one a month because that's what it takes, Mark. I could write thirty articles about cats stuck up trees, but who wants that? Good writing takes time, and good research takes longer. This piece about Victor Antonov, it's solid gold." The second I mentioned Victor's name, Mark shrank back, like a caveman coming across a forest fire for the first time. He was a pro, and he hid it in seconds, but I filed it away.

"All I'm saying, Ellie, is maybe you
should
write a few interest pieces, just for a while. I'm not saying you need to write about firemen and cats, you know? But give me something I can go to the board with, because otherwise…" He trailed off, but what he didn't say was almost as important as what he had. It was a threat, that much was plain as day. My job was on the line, but everything was so shrouded in shades of gray that I wasn't sure why. I had no doubt that the Herald's board was thinking about cutting back the investigative journalism team, but still, something felt
off
about this..

I held my thumb and forefinger up half an inch from each other, most trembling with rage. "I'm
this
close, Mark, to bringing this bastard
down
.

I span around on my heel and began marching righteously out of the office. I knew that Mark wouldn't take offense; we'd had far worse slanging matches before, which was any good editor's job. Hell, if he wasn't having stand-up fights with his reporters on at least a weekly basis, then he was doing something wrong – and so were they. Still, something about this wasn't sitting right with me. I had the same nagging sense that there was more to this them was being said, like an iceberg that kept 90% of its enormous bulk under the surface of the water, that I got when tracking down a lead for a story.

My editor's parting rejoinder followed me out and into the corridor, but it came in a nervous, reedy tone of voice that I wasn't used to associating with Mark. "The Antonov's are a powerful family in this town, Ellie. Just be careful, okay?"

"Alright," I hissed as I left, just quietly enough to kid myself that he might not have heard, and take that tiny victory, but just loudly enough for him to – in all likelihood – have picked up every word.

I just didn't know how soon his warning would be tested.

* * *

I
paced
up and down our tiny little office as my colleague and, I wasn't afraid to admit it, my friend Tilly watched with concern. "Maybe you should sit –." She began, but I wasn't hearing any of it.

"He's hiding something, Tilly," I hissed, as venomously as a hunting snake. "I don't know what it is, or what's going on, but he's not telling me the truth, I know that much for damn sure."

"Well," Tilly began reasonably. "You don't really
know
anything, do you?"

I shot her a betrayed look. I wasn't hurt, not really, both because we'd worked together for long enough (and then a couple of years more) to become the best of friends, and because the rational side of me, the side that would reappear the second my irritation stopped flaring up, agreed with her. "Okay," I conceded. "You're right. I don't. But I think someone's leaning on him. There, I said it. Maybe even Victor Antonov himself. I know we've tried to keep our investigation quiet, but it's bound to have ruffled a few feathers…"

Tilly's face twisted into a shocked, yet not entirely surprised frown. The expression was at once contradictory, and yet completely understandable, at least in Alexandria, a town where it was best not to trust anyone or anything unless you were absolutely certain. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time that someone had attempted to kill one of our stories – which explained the
not entirely surprised
bit, but still, it seemed hard to believe. "But Mark, surely not?" She gasped. "He's always supported our team…"

I slumped down and sat on top of my desk, crossing both my legs and arms. "I hate to say it," I grinned sadly. "And don't you dare repeat it outside of this room, but Mark's got bigger things on his plate than just the IJ team. I can see his point of view. What's worse, get rid of us, or move us to the human interest team, or instead keep this place's doors open for another few months."

I spread my arms expressively. "I'm just glad it's not my call."

Tilly sighed, sounding depressed. "Hey, enough of this business talk. What's going on with
you
, girlfriend?"

I know she meant it kindly, but even now, months later, people still got that same concerned look when they spoke to me, as if I was still lying in a hospital bed, not perfectly healthy! I tensed with frustration, but made a conscious effort to relax. After all, she only meant best.

"I'm fine," I said. And I was. I'd thrown myself into my job over the past few weeks, working crazy hours to distract myself from the fact that the man I'd once thought I was destined to marry was now resting away, where he belonged, in a prison cell. But it had worked. Other than moments like this, when someone else brought him up, I barely thought of Rick these days.

"Hey," she said, her face lighting up as a thought struck her. "I know, how about we go out for a few drinks. Like old times."

I groaned. "I wish I could," I said. "But I've got to pick Frankie up from the vet. He's got a bladder infection, or something. Rain check?"

Tilly grimaced. "Okaaaay," she said slowly. "But let's do something soon, promise? We need to get you laid. How long's it been, anyway?" She joked, with a sad smirk tickling her face.

"I'm fine," I protested, "thank you very much. I can look after myself perfectly well in
that
department."

"How long?" she taunted, smiling. I didn't begrudge her for it. We'd been friends for far too long for me to even consider the thought. "Shit, Ellie, you're probably growing cobwebs down there. Do you even know how everything works still?"

I rose to her bait. "I'll have you know," I said. "That I'm
entirely
happy with how things are going down there."

Tilly's eyes lit up. She loved a good bit of gossip. "No!" She gasped. You got laid, didn't you? And you didn't tell me, you minx! Who was it?"

My cheeks went bright red, and I had a sudden, unbearable urge to hide myself behind something solid, and away from Tilly's probing questions. I didn't even know why. I’d shared information about a dozen conquests with Tilly over the years, and she'd done the same. But my night with Roman seemed somehow sacred, special – a memory that was almost too good to share. "Nobody you know," I said evasively. "Besides, it was weeks ago."

"Weeks!" Tilly shrieked. "Weeks, and you didn't tell me? I thought we were friends!" She pouted, but couldn't hold it and cracked a smile. "So…"

"So…" I repeated. I knew exactly what she was asking, but I didn't want to answer her.

"So what happened?" She probed. I knew I'd have to tell her the truth, because, like any good reporter, she could be like a dog with a bone. The last thing I wanted was her going around and digging for clues. I was pretty sure no one would remember what had happened in that bar, that night, but Tilly was a damn fine journalist, and I wouldn't put it past her.

"Okay, okay," I laughed. "I'll tell you. But I've got to hurry, otherwise I'll miss Frankie. There's not much to tell, not really. Believe me, it was a good night." I paused, flushing with heat as I relived some of the more X-rated things that Roman had done to me under the cover of darkness. "No, a great night," I corrected myself. "But it was a one-time thing."

"He didn't call?" Tilly said, disappointed.

"I didn't give him my number," I said sternly. It was the truth, but only part of it. The whole truth was that I'd shocked myself by my hunger for him, the way my body had responded to him, the way he completed me, and I'd worried that it was too much, too soon. I knew all the signs of an abusive relationship, now at least, and my night with Roman was exactly how they liked to start. I'd seen the way Roman operated, the way he inflicted violence so casually, even if it
was
to defend me, and I'd thought the better of it. "Listen," I said, catching a glimpse of the clock ticking away on the wall. "I've got to run."

I'll walk you to the bus stop," Tilly said, a slight band of concerned wrinkles breaking the lines of what was otherwise a perfectly soft, smooth and beautiful face
. It's a shame
, I thought, that
someone that hot hasn't found someone to love
. "It's getting dark."

I pointed upwards and laughed. Our office was in the basement, but luckily we had a skylight that opened up to ground level, so it didn't feel like we were completely boxed in, even with thousands of tons of concrete overhead. "Dark! Maybe you really
do
need to get those glasses you're always talking about, Tilly – it looks pretty sunny to me…" I said firmly, catching her concerned look and holding it.
I'm okay
, my eyes said. But I got the sense that that wouldn't be enough. "Rick's locked up, and as far as the police are concerned, they'll probably throw away the key."

"But –." She protested. I cut her off with a look. A look that I'd come to regret.

* * *

T
he sun
really
was
setting by the time I pulled my head out of my research folder and stepped out of the doors to the Herald's office. I checked my watch and cursed. I did this way too often, especially these days. There was something strangely upsetting about returning to an empty home, it felt as though I was missing a half of me. I realized that I was going to have to cut it pretty fine to get back in time to pick Frankie up.

For the slightest of moments, as I stepped out of the out of hours side door, apparently one of the last people left beavering away at my desk this late on a Friday evening, and out of the warm, safe embrace of the guarded office building, I felt a twinge of worry. Back when I started, the Herald had the choicest offices in town, right in the center. But cutbacks are the same everywhere, and it wasn't long before the beautiful old offices were sold off to developers, and the few journalists that were left were dumped right on the outskirts of the industrial district. Sometimes I joked that it was
my
fault.

Come on now
, I chided myself.
You can't spend the whole of your life worrying
.

My heart sank as I reached the bus stop. There was a yellow sign fastened to it indicating that it was closed, and directing people to the next, and nearest stop… Which was three blocks down. I'd held off on getting a car for as long as I could, I thought, but Alexandria's public transport system was getting ridiculous. Whether it was the Italian Mafia, the Russian bratva, The problem was, on a journalist's meager salary, I was still practically as far away from being able to afford to purchase a car as I had been the day I left college. Which was equally as terrifying as it was distressing. Still, I'd known the day I went into this business that I was never going to make my fortune in it. That's not the reason I was doing it. It was, no matter how young and idealistic it sounded, to make the world a better place.