Page 13 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

5

IGOR

“What do you mean you’re not coming back to New York with me?” Aleks asks, his brow furrowing in confusion as he glances up from the glass of whiskey he’s nursing.

“Exactly what I said,” I reply with a dismissive wave. “I’ve got unfinished business here in Moscow. I’ll be back in a few days.”

“There’s nothing left to do here,” Aleks points out, nodding toward the TV mounted behind the bar. The news anchor is droning on about the mistrial in our men’s case—the result of his jury tampering. It worked like a charm. The trial is in limbo, and it’ll take months, maybe years, for the system to scrape together a new jury. In the meantime, we’ve got what we wanted: time. Time to bribe, time to pay off the right people, time to bury this case so deep it’ll never see the light of day again.

“Our job here is done,” Aleks continues. “Father expects both of us back. The whole point of showing up at the trial was to remind our men to stay loyal. A little warning shot to let them know we’re watching. It worked. Now let’s go home.”

“This has nothing to do with the family business,” I grind out, my teeth clenched. “I’ve got something else to take care of. Something personal.”

Aleks sits up straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Explain.”

“Stay in your lane, brother,” I hiss, my patience already wearing thin. “This is something I have to deal with. Alone.”

Without waiting for a response, I turn back to the bar, eyeing the half-empty whiskey bottle sitting within arm’s reach. Right now, that amber liquid is calling my name.

I grab the bottle and pour myself a fresh glass, watching the ripples as the whiskey sloshes against the sides. More and more, I’m starting to understand why Father reaches for a drink before most people have their first cup of coffee.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m the bastard everyone claims I am. The womanizer, the demon. Or maybe I’m just an idiot.

Either way, life has never felt this fucked up.

I groan when Aleks drags himself onto the stool next to mine.

“Seriously, man,” he says, his voice softer now, like he’s trying to talk me down from the edge.

I shoot him a glare. “What?”

He raises his hands in surrender, but his expression is serious. “Igor, you’re better than this.”

“Better than what?” I ask, my tone sharp.

“Better than Father,” Aleks says quietly.

His words catch me off guard, hitting me square in the chest. It’s the first time either of us has said it out loud. We’ve thought it, sure—probably more times than we can count—but saying it is something else entirely. Loyalty to Father has been drilled into us since birth, and breaking that unspoken rule feels dangerous.

But Aleks doesn’t stop there.

“Don’t close yourself off from the world,” he continues. “I’m your brother. Believe it or not, I want to help you. Talk to me.”

I stare into my glass, swirling the whiskey as I debate whether to open my mouth. The words tumble out before I can stop them.

“I’m a father,” I confess, my voice low.

Aleks blinks, surprised. “Damien’s lucky to have you,” he says, referring to my son with Anastasiya.

“That’s not what I mean,” I mutter, shaking my head. “There’s another kid. The woman I hooked up with six years ago doesn’t want me in her life. In their life. Go figure.”

Aleks lets out a low whistle, leaning back slightly. “Damn.”

He’s not shocked. Aleks rarely shows emotion, but I can see the wheels turning in his head, analyzing and calculating.

“You keep doing the same thing, man,” he chuckles after a moment.

“It’s like a fucking copy-paste of my past,” I acknowledge bitterly. “But this time, I want to do it the right way. Her name’s Sofiya,” I say, the name slipping out like it’s been sitting on my tongue for years, waiting for the right moment to be spoken.

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