Page 51 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

“Oh, hey,”Aleks says, his tone awkward as we nearly collide in the hallway. He looks at me, clearly unsure how to gauge my mood.

“Not now,” I snap, brushing past him. My fists clench at my sides, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I force myself to focus, to redirect the anger brewing inside me. “What are we going to do about Montoya? Do you have a plan to fix this mess? Because apart from kicking Mikhail’s ass, I’ve got nothing.”

Aleks’s expression sharpens instantly. He’s good at this—shifting from casual to businesslike in the blink of an eye. He knows exactly what’s at stake, exactly what needs to be done. Because the truth is, the weight of this situation falls squarely on us, and without a doubt, one of the first tasks waiting for him will be tracking down the missing shipment.

Montoya’s threats are not a joke. The Colombians don’t bluff. Everyone knows their reputation is carved in blood, and the fact that the shipment disappeared under our watch doesn’t just make us look incompetent—it makes us look weak. And weakness? That’s something they’ll exploit without hesitation.

You’d think a decade of working together would count for something, that they’d give us the benefit of the doubt. But that’s not how the Colombians work. If anything, they’re stricter withtheir so-called allies. It’s not enough to pay them off; they’ll want revenge. The thief, whoever they are, is already as good as dead—they just don’t know it yet. But if we don’t find them fast, we’ll be the ones to take their place in Montoya’s crosshairs.

“Yes,” Aleks finally says, his tone clipped. “I’ve got a plan. But first…” He hesitates, his gaze flicking to mine. “Is everything okay with Katya and the kids?”

My lips press into a hard line. I don’t answer. I wouldn’t even know where to begin if I tried. What am I supposed to say? That I’m a stranger to my daughter? That the sight of Sofiya reaching for Katya—or worse, for Aleks—makes something inside me twist in a way I can’t even put into words?

Even to my own ears, it would sound pathetic.

So I stay silent.

I look away, focusing on the anger churning in my gut instead of the ache pressing against my chest.This is bullshit.Sofiya shouldn’t think I’m a temporary fixture in her life. I’m her father.

“What’s the plan?” I demand, cutting through the silence.

Aleks doesn’t press for an answer. He knows me too well, knows when to back off and when to push. Instead, he nods and switches gears. “I made an appointment to meet with Boris Olenko. A lot of people pass through his strip clubs. If anyone’s heard anything about the shipment, it’ll be him.”

“It’s a good place to start,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “But there’s just one thing.”

Aleks tilts his head, his brows furrowing slightly. He runs through the steps in his head, trying to figure out what he might have missed. It’s a habit of his, one that usually makes me roll my eyes, but right now, it’s the reason I trust him. He doesn’t leave loose ends.

“What?” he finally asks.

“I’ll be the one going,” I tell him, my voice firm. “Not you.”

Aleks raises a brow, his confusion obvious. “I thought?—”

“I’ll stop by after Sofiya’s doctor’s appointment,” I interrupt, cutting him off. “That’s the priority right now. And Olenko? He’s mine to worry about.”

Aleks studies me for a moment, and I can see the hesitation flickering behind his eyes. But to his credit, he doesn’t argue.

“If that’s what you want,” he says slowly.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want,” I reply, holding his gaze.

I give him a short nod before turning on my heel and heading straight for the sanctuary of my room.

By the time I reach the liquor cabinet, my anger is boiling over. I grab the nearest bottle, pouring a shot with shaky hands. My head’s a fucking mess, and this is the only thing that will take the edge off.

The first shot burns, sliding down my throat like fire. It doesn’t help, so I pour another. And another.

But no matter how much I drink, the thoughts keep coming. The anger, the frustration, theemptiness.One sip does little to ease the tension spreading through my limbs, and by the time I down the third shot, the burning in my chest feels more like punishment than relief.

I slam the bottle on the counter, gripping the edge with both hands as I steady myself.

Alcohol might blur the edges of reality, but it never erases it. The truth always comes back, sharper and more painful than before.

I stare at the bottle for a long moment, my reflection warped and distorted in the glass. My mind drifts, the haze of the vodka giving way to memories I’ve tried to keep buried.

Six years ago.

Katya.

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