Hunted by a Shadow (Kings of Mafia #3)

by Michelle Heard

Franco reaches down and picks up Augusto, then comes closer to me. There’s a proud smile on his face as he stares down at his heir, then his eyes flick to mine. “Hold him,” he whispers. I shake my head and take a step back. Franco gives me a look of warning. “Hold my fucking son, Renzo.” Reluctantly and very fucking awkwardly, I take the baby, instantly anxious I’ll drop him. Augusto makes a cute gurgling sound, and it looks like he’s smiling at me. Weirdly enough, I begin to feel calmer. When I aim to touch his chubby cheek, he grabs hold of my finger. Seeing his tiny hand holding mine, my fucking heart melts. “You’re their godfather. You should bond with them,” Franco says. “I know. They just terrify the fuck out of me,” I admit with a soft chuckle. “You just needed a little oxytocin to make you feel better,” Franco murmurs. I glance at my friend. “Oxytocin?” “Love hormones. They release when you hold babies or puppies. Why do you think I’m so much calmer? I’m constantly high on the shit.” I let out another chuckle and have to admit, I feel better.

The ride to the warehouse is filled with silence, but I feel the excitement coming in waves from Skylar and soon find myself looking at her again. Her bottom lip is being tortured by her teeth, and her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. Her hands tremble where they’re clasped together on her lap. When Vincenzo brings the Bentley to a stop, Skylar’s eyes turn to me. She hesitates for a moment, then says, “You said if I cry, you’ll make my father pay for each tear.” I forgot I said that to her. Her tone is soft as she pleads, “I’m not sure I can hold back the tears when I see him. Please don’t hurt him.” Fuck, she’s asking permission to cry, and it hits me square in the chest. Unable to speak, I just nod before I shove the door open and climb out of the car.

Today I’m choosing my signature dish, and I’m torn between two. Setting both meals down in front of Renzo, my tone is professional as I point at the plate on the left. “This is Banh xeo, a savory Vietnamese pancake filled with pork, shrimp, onions, and bean sprouts.” I gesture at the other plate. “And this is yukhaejang, a Korean spicy brisket soup.” My eyes meet Renzo’s. “Tell me which one you like most.” He nods as he turns his attention to the dishes, and taking a bite of the first one, he focuses on the taste. I push his glass of Italian Prosecco closer so he can use it as a palette cleanser. When he takes a bite of the Korean soup, my heart beats faster and nerves spin in my stomach. Sitting back, his eyes meet mine, and I swear the man is trying to torture me when he doesn’t immediately give me his feedback. “The Korean spicy brisket is your signature dish,” he says. “You got nervous when I took a bite, which means it’s important to you.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “It doesn’t matter which one I like more.”