Page 49 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

The sound of the door creaking open stops me mid-sentence. My head snaps up, startled, and my pulse quickens as Igor steps into the room.

He’s cleaned up, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, his hair smoothed back. The blood is gone, replaced by a disarming softness I don’t trust. His presence still fills the room, swallowing the space like a shadow.

He moves toward the bed with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze locking onto mine. For a moment, all my thoughts scatter.

“I hope you didn’t start without me,” he says, his voice low but warm, his lips curling into a small, almost tender smile. “We should do this as a family.”

The wordfamilylingers in the air, wrapping itself around me like a noose. My throat tightens, but I force myself to hold his gaze, even as my chest tightens with anger—and something else I can’t name.

Sofiya shifts beside me, her curious eyes darting between Igor and me. Damien smiles brightly, clearly thrilled to see his father join us.

I swallow hard, pushing the lump in my throat down. “We’re just starting,” I say, my voice steady, though every nerve in my body is on alert.

Igor sits next to Damien, his weight shifting the mattress. His hand brushes against mine for a fleeting moment, and I flinch before I can stop myself. His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t comment.

“Go on,” he says, leaning back and gesturing to the book in my hands. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

My jaw tightens as I force myself to return my attention to the book. The words blur as my focus wavers, but I take a deep breath and continue.

“Once upon a time,” I start again, my voice softer now, “there was a beautiful princess who lived in a castle by the sea…”

As I read and sign, my mind works overtime. I can feel Igor’s presence beside me, his steady gaze occasionally shifting to Sofiya and Damien. It’s unsettling, this moment of quiet domesticity, because I know it’s not real. It’s an illusion.

Because Igor doesn’t belong in this picture.

17

IGOR

“We need to tell her.”

Katya’s eyes widen at the words I just spoke, disbelief flashing across her face as she closes the book and sets it on her lap.

I hold her gaze, unyielding, as if to remind her that this isn’t up for debate. We’ve had this argument before, and I made myself perfectly clear: Sofiya needs to know who her father is. I won’t be robbed of this time with my daughter. Not by Katya, not by circumstance, not by anything.

She’smine.

They’rebothmine.

Sofiya and Damien are my family.The only good left in this ruthless, blood-soaked world I’ve carved out for myself. And Katya? She’ll have to figure out where she fits in. She can stand with us, or she can remain on the outside, glaring at me with that stubborn defiance that only fuels the fire between us.

I reach over and adjust the covers, tucking Sofiya in tighter. Katya’s sharp green eyes track my every move. I ignore her, focusing instead on Sofiya.

Her little face is blank, her glassy blue eyes wandering between me and Katya as if she’s trying to solve a puzzle too big for her small mind. No smile, no frown—just silence. It guts me.

Damien is the opposite. He crawls out from under the covers, his tiny hand landing on my thigh. He’s eager for my attention, unafraid to take it. I brush my hand through his soft hair, pride swelling in my chest at his unflinching love for me.

But Katya’s still watching me, simmering.

“I’m aware I’ll need your help to tell her,” I say, my voice low and firm. I let my words sink in, holding her gaze until I see the flash of irritation in her eyes. “Don’t mess this up for me, Katya. I will know if you lie to her.”

Her fingers drum against the book in her lap, sharp and deliberate. “This isn’t the time,” she snaps, her tone clipped and sharp enough to cut.

A low snicker rises from my throat before I can stop it. Something about those words—the defiance, the sheernerve—makes something snap inside me. I’ve heard plenty of excuses and empty protests in my life, and while this one doesn’t technically fall into either category, it grates on me all the same.

I glance down at Damien, who is still fidgeting with his shirt. His innocence grounds me, softening the edge of my temper. Gently, I pinch his cheek. “How do you like having Sofiya around?”

“She’s fun,” Damien says immediately, his little face lighting up. “But she doesn’t talk a lot.” He looks at Sofiya with a shy grin. “But that’s okay because she likes the same games I do.”

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