Page 45 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

“My boys will get it done,” my father assures him, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

Aleks and I exchange another glance. There’s still one more matter to address, and neither of us is willing to let it slide.

“Did you kill Aleks’s dog?” I demand, my gaze locking onto Montoya’s.

“Excuse me?” Montoya’s amusement vanishes, replaced by a glare so sharp it could cut steel. His expression darkens, a storm brewing behind his hazel eyes. “If you’re accusing me of something, you’d better be damn sure of it.”

His reaction is immediate and visceral. For the first time since this meeting began, I believe him. He didn’t do it. But that doesn’t mean I can let it go. Not when I have children under my roof and a front door that was just turned into a delivery zone for mutilated body parts.

Katya clears her throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “That wasn’t our intention,” she says smoothly, her tone soothing but firm. “We’re simply trying to make sense of what happened.”

“Make sense of what?” Montoya snaps, his frustration evident. “I believe it’syourturn to explain the basics to me.”

I glance at Katya, and a chill runs down my spine. Her calmness is far more dangerous than Montoya’s anger. My instincts flare as I tap my foot against hers under the table, trying to warn her to tread lightly. Her response? She kicks my leg—hard.

I grit my teeth, biting back the urge to curse at her. She’ll pay for that later.

Preferably in bed.

Katya smiles sweetly at Montoya, tilting her head. “The Sokolov men like to keep me out of their manly business,” she says, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. “But I do know some of the details, and I’d be happy to share them with you—if you promise to at least try to help.”

My fists clench.What the hell is she playing at?

Montoya raises his eyebrows, intrigued. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s this all about?”

Katya sits up straighter, all business. “This morning, we arrived from Russia. And when we got to Igor’s apartment, there were several packages waiting for him. Let’s just say they weren’t from Amazon.”

“This isn’t a fucking joke,” I snarl.

Montoya chuckles darkly, his gaze flicking to me. “No, it isn’t,” he replies. “But I assume those packages had something to do with Aleks’s dog?”

Katya nods, her face unreadable.

And just like that, the room plunges deeper into dangerous waters.

As Katya lays out the details of the boxes, her calm, measured tone does nothing to mask the grotesque truth of what was inside. My attention isn’t on her words, though. It’s on Montoya and Timur. I watch them like a hawk, studying every flicker of their expressions.

Montoya raises his brows as she speaks, but otherwise, he remains infuriatingly composed. His poker face is flawless, his hazel eyes giving nothing away. Timur, on the other hand, is harder to read. His lips press into a tight line, his jaw stiff, but it could be irritation just as much as it could be guilt. Neitherof them looks happy, but more importantly, neither looks surprised.

I don’t trust them.

“Do you have any idea who could’ve done this?” Montoya asks when Katya finishes, his voice smooth but laced with steel.

“We assumed it was you,” I say bluntly, locking eyes with him.

The room goes silent, the weight of my accusation slamming into the space between us. Montoya doesn’t flinch. Instead, his hazel eyes narrow, and his glare sharpens into something that could cut glass.

“But,” I add quickly, clearing my throat to ease the tension, “based on your reaction, I can tell it wasn’t your doing.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his head tilting slightly as he studies me like a cat toying with a mouse.

“Have you ever heard of a Colombian necktie?” Montoya asks softly.

Before I can respond, my father cuts in, his voice sharp and commanding. “We don’t need to talk about that,” he says firmly. “They meant no disrespect.”

I glance at him, surprised. He looks calm, but the edge in his tone tells me all I need to know—Montoya is drawing a line, and my father knows better than to cross it.

Of course, Mikhail, ever the idiot, chooses this moment to open his mouth. “What’s a Colombian necktie?” he asks.

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