Page 20 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

“Don’t tempt me,” I warn, my voice low and deadly. “You seem to forget who you’re talking to.”

Her face pales, but she holds her ground, her jaw tight with defiance.

“Listen carefully,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We’re all getting into your car. You’ll drive us home. You’ll pack a bag for Sofiya, and for yourself if you’re smart. Then we’re flying to New York. Sofiya needs my help, and I won’t wait another day.”

“Igor, please?—”

“No,” I interrupt her, my tone final. “My mind’s made up.”

I open the car door and gently strap Sofiya into her seat. She looks at me with curious eyes and smiles, her tiny hands moving again in gestures I don’t understand.

Katya climbs into the passenger seat without another word, her face pale and drawn.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” I say quietly as I start the engine. “But I hope one day you’ll forgive me. For your sake, and for Sofiya’s.”

“You were supposed to be a one-night stand,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. “Easy. No strings attached.” I know exactly what she’s referring to, remembering what transpired between us at Nikolai and Katarina’s wedding.

I sigh. “We can’t change it now. We need to focus on Sofiya instead.”

We stop at a traffic light, the silence thick and uncomfortable. Katya turns her head, leaning it back against the headrest, and exhales slowly. Her shoulders sag under the weight of everything unsaid, her entire demeanor radiating defeat and disappointment.

“Things shouldn’t have happened like this,” she murmurs, her voice almost lost in the hum of the engine. “You shouldn’t be a part of my life—ourlife. We’re fine without you.”

“Well, now I’m here,” I say simply.

There’s nothing left to say. No point in sugarcoating it. Neither of us can take any of it back—not our decisions, not our regrets. Katya has to live with the consequences of keeping Sofiya a secret, just like I have to live with the fallout of discovering her so late. What matters now is Sofiya. She deserves the best, and I’ll make sure she gets it, no matter how messy things get between her mother and me.

Without giving Katya another chance to argue or try to talk me out of this, I grab my phone and call Aleks.

“Igor,” he answers, skipping any pretense of pleasantries.

“I need a favor,” I say, keeping my tone clipped and businesslike.

He makes a low sound in his throat—acknowledgment or annoyance, I don’t know. “Tell me.”

“Get me a private jet ready to leave for New York in three hours,” I say.

I glance at Katya. She’s gripping the handle above the window so tightly her knuckles have turned white. Good. Let her stew in it. Maybe now she understands just how serious I am.

“Anything else?” Aleks asks, unfazed.

“I need someone to research who has the most advanced treatment for naufro?—”

“Neurofibromatosis, type II,” Katya interrupts, her voice cutting through my sentence.

I pause, turning to her. “What?”

“Neurofibromatosis, type II,” she repeats, her tone sharp but controlled.

I hold the phone out toward her. “Say it again.”

She leans slightly closer, speaking directly into the receiver. “Neurofibromatosis, type II.”

“Did you get that?” I ask Aleks.

“Yeah,” he says. “You need a plane and a doctor.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, and for once, I mean it.

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