Page 43 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

Mikhail grins lazily, clearly unbothered, but his father’s glare cuts through the tension like a blade. For a moment, I think Dimitri will say something, but Aleks steps in smoothly, positioning himself between Igor and Mikhail.

“Should we take our seats?” Aleks suggests, his tone calm, his posture casual. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

I don’t miss how Aleks is the one who keeps stepping in to defuse the tension. He’s like a buffer, absorbing the heat before things boil over. Though he’s not the eldest, it’s obvious he has the steadiest head in the room. The perfect lieutenant for Igor, once the mantel ofpakhanis inevitably passed down.

I follow their lead, reluctantly taking my place beside Igor. Aleks settles on my other side, giving me a reassuring smile as he does. I glance at him, grateful for the unspoken solidarity. Right after Katarina, he’s easily my favorite Sokolov. Well, him and Damien, who’s too cute to count as a Sokolov in the same way the others do.

My eyes drift across the room, taking in the men wearing their tailored suits and cold stares. If this were a party or a high-end restaurant, their appearances would have turned heads. Sharp, predatory, dangerous—there’s something mesmerizing about them. But I know better. They’re not just handsome men in suits. They’re beasts. Apex predators dressed up as civilized humans.

The tension in the air is suffocating, thick with unspoken threats and sharp-edged power plays. These are men who never back down. Men who thrive on bloodshed and chaos. And I’m caught in the middle of them, trying not to let my dread show.

Dimitri Sokolov takes his seat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his glare as sharp as ever. Across from us, Montoya and Timur claim their spots, both radiating barely concealed arrogance.

Once everyone is seated, the room dips into a brief, uneasy silence.

Then Montoya clears his throat, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “So,” he says, his voice smooth and laced with mockery. “Shall we talk about how you lost twenty-million-dollars of cargo, or shall we eat dinner first?”

Montoya’s words hang in the air, heavy with accusation. My stomach tightens, but I force my expression to remain neutral, my hands folded in my lap as I glance between the men.

Igor’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond immediately. His father’s glare sharpens, and Aleks sits back slightly, observing, his calm demeanor betraying nothing.

Timur’s mouth curls into a thin smile. “Always so direct, Montoya,” he says smoothly, though there’s an edge to his tone. “But maybe you should learn a little patience. Dinner first. Business after.”

Montoya’s gaze flicks to Timur, and for a moment, the tension between them feels almost physical. Then, with a shrug,he leans back in his chair, his lips quirking into a grin. “Fine,” he says. “Dinner first.”

I glance at Igor out of the corner of my eye. His expression is hard, his icy gaze fixed on Montoya. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and I can feel the storm brewing inside him. But he doesn’t lash out. Not yet.

The food is brought out in silence, plates of expertly prepared dishes set in front of us by the household staff. The smells are rich and enticing, but my appetite is nonexistent. I feel like I’m walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

Igor picks up his knife and fork. He doesn’t look at me, but his presence beside me is impossible to ignore. I focus on my plate, pushing food around without taking more than a few bites.

Across the table, Montoya and Timur exchange quiet words, their low voices blending with the faint clinking of silverware. Aleks, as usual, remains calm and observant, while Mikhail devours his food with the enthusiasm of someone who can’t read the room.

“Eat,” Igor mutters under his breath, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I glance at him. His gaze flicks to mine for a brief second—just long enough to remind me of the unspoken rules I agreed to by sitting at this table. Play the role. Behave. Don’t make a scene.

I force myself to take a bite, chewing mechanically as my thoughts race.

As the plates are cleared, Dimitri finally speaks, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Now that dinner’s out of the way, let’s address the elephant in the room.”

His gaze lands on Igor, sharp and commanding. “What happened to the shipment?”

Igor leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “It was mishandled,” he says bluntly. “Mikhail was overseeing it.”

At the mention of his name, Mikhail straightens slightly, his grin faltering for the first time.

“Mishandled,” Dimitri repeats, his voice laced with disdain. “That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s the only way to put it,” Igor snaps, his tone hard. “We don’t have all the answers yet, but we’re working on it. That’s why Montoya is here. To discuss next steps.”

Montoya raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “Discuss, or shift blame?”

Igor’s gaze sharpens, his jaw tightening again. Aleks steps in smoothly, his tone calm and diplomatic. “No one’s shifting blame. We’re here to resolve the issue and move forward. That benefits all of us.”

Timur nods, his expression frozen. “Aleks is right. Let’s focus on solutions, not finger-pointing.”

Dimitri’s glare softens somewhat, though his tone remains cold. “Fine. But I expect answers by the end of this meeting.”

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