Page 40 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

“That I do, Mother,” I say, shifting my gaze to my father, whose expression is teetering between unbridled rage and complete disbelief. “But before we get to that, I want to make an official introduction.” I glance at Katya, sitting tall despite the weight of my father’s glare, then back at my parents. “Father. Mother. This is Katya Volkova, the mother of my child.”

The words hang in the air like a live grenade, the tension crackling around us.

My father’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening. He’s too quiet at first, which is always worse. Seconds tick by, and his silence becomes suffocating. His gaze, cold as frostbite, bores into me.

Then it detonates.

“Excuse me?” he booms, slamming his fist into the armrest of his chair.

“Not again,” my mother mutters under her breath, shaking her head. I’m not sure if she’s referring to my father’s outburst orthe fact that this is thesecondtime I’ve unintentionally gotten a woman pregnant.

I grit my teeth. “It happened. Sofiya was born, and I just found out about her, okay? Let’s move on. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“Damn right we do,” Aleks interjects, clearly eager to move things forward before my father spirals further. “Igor and I are being targeted.”

My mother stiffens, her hand fluttering to my father’s arm. It’s the kind of gentle touch she uses to reel him back in when his temper threatens to boil over. It works, but barely. He doesn’t lash out again, but his expression remains stone cold, his chest heaving as he breathes through his anger.

“Dimitri,” my mother urges softly, “you have to calm down.”

He mutters something under his breath—something about needing a drink—and my mother rises to fetch one for him. When she returns, he takes it, swallows deeply, and sits forward, his shoulders stiff, his glare bouncing between Aleks and me.

“Speak,” he orders, his voice low and edged with anger. “What happened?”

This is a side of my father I’ve always admired, no matter how much I hate the man himself. The raging drunk falls away, replaced by the cold, calculatingpakhan. All sharp edges and iron resolve, the kind of man who thrives in chaos. This is the father I’ve spent my whole life trying to impress, the man whose approval I’ve sought even when I knew I wouldn’t get it.

I keep my voice calm, direct, clinical. “Aleks’s dog was mutilated, stuffed into several boxes, and left on my doorstep. There was also a dead rat. Possibly two. Hard to tell, considering they were in pieces.”

Katya lets out a low gasp beside me, but I don’t look at her. I can’t afford to.

My father’s face hardens. He leans back slightly, crossing his arms, the black gold cufflinks on his sleeves catching the light. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No,” I say firmly. “Unfortunately, it’s not. That’s why we’re here.”

“Strength in numbers,” Aleks adds, his tone even but serious.

Father exhales heavily, his eyes narrowing as he processes the information. “This can mean only one thing.”

Aleks and I exchange a glance before speaking in unison. “The Colombians.”

My father nods slowly, but his expression remains cautious. “We must be certain. It’s a dangerous accusation to throw around without evidence.”

“Perhaps we should invite Montoya to our meeting with Timur,” I suggest. “See how he reacts. His response could tell us something.”

Father’s lips press into a thin line as he considers it. After a long pause, he finally says, “Mikhail will be back for dinner. He was in charge of the shipment, so he’ll need to be there for the meeting.”

My gut twists at the mention of Mikhail. That idiot was the catalyst for this entire mess, and now I have to sit across from him while we clean up his disaster. “There are kids in the house,” I remind my father, my tone sharp. “We can’t have Sofiya and Damien sitting at the same table as mobsters. Let’s skip the dinner and go straight to the meeting.”

“The women can take care of them,” my father replies dismissively, waving a hand as if my concern is trivial. “We’ll have a better chance at gauging their reactions if we ease into the discussion.”

“I want to be present,” Katya declares, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Before I can argue, my mother speaks up. “I’ll stay with the kids upstairs,” she says firmly, cutting off any protest from my father before it can begin. “And it could prove beneficial to show there’s more than one Volkov on our side.”

I glance at Katya, frustration prickling under my skin. She has no idea what she’s walking into, no idea how dangerous this meeting could get. I take a breath, ready to tell her as much, when my father rises from his chair.

“It’s settled, then,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. He turns to Katya, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. “You’re there for decoration. The running commentary will be done by men.”

My mother’s jaw tightens at his words, her fingers curling slightly at her sides, but she says nothing. Instead, she takes his offered arm and allows him to escort her out of the room.

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