Page 58 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

Dr. Tolliver watches us leave, her professional demeanor unshaken, but I can feel her eyes lingering on me as we step out into the hallway.

By the time we reach the car, the tension between Katya and me has reached its breaking point. Sofiya is buckled into her car seat, her little hands clutching a toy from Dr. Tolliver’s office, oblivious to the storm brewing between her parents.

“That was uncalled for,” I tell Katya as soon as the door shuts behind us.

She turns to me, her green eyes blazing with fury.

“You’re kidding, right?” she snaps. “You’re not allowed to be an asshole and take the high road at the same time. It doesn’t work like that.”

I cross my arms over my chest, leaning against the car. “Enlighten me, then. How does it work?”

Katya stares at me, her lips pressing into a thin line as if she’s weighing whether or not to unleash hell on me. Finally, she exhales sharply, throwing up her hands.

“Whatever,” she mutters, opening the passenger door. “Let’s just go.”

I shake my head, the frustration clawing at me again. She knows exactly how to push my buttons, and right now, I can’t even stand to share the same space with her.

“Take the car,” I tell her, stepping back and tossing her the keys.

“What?”

“I’ll call a taxi,” I say, my tone clipped. “I have somewhere else to be.”

She narrows her eyes at me, her hand tightening on the car door. “Running away, Igor?”

I force a smirk, even as my blood boils. “Hardly. I just don’t want to spend the next hour arguing with you.”

Without waiting for a response, I pull out my phone and step away from the car, ordering an Uber.

Katya climbs into the car without another word, slamming the door harder than necessary. I watch as the vehicle pulls out on First Avenue, Sofiya’s little face pressed against the window, watching me.

I stay rooted in place, my fists clenched at my sides as the car disappears from view.

20

IGOR

“It looks closed, sir,” the Uber driver remarks as he pulls up to the curb in front ofThe Velvet Echo.

“The nightclub is closed during the day,” I reply, keeping my tone casual. “But the strip club is open 24/7.”

The driver—short, round, and sporting hair so black it looks like it’s been dipped in tar—chuckles, a low, knowing sound. I toss a few bills onto the seat beside him and step out, the air outside sharp and laced with the faint smell of the city’s grit.

I haven’t been to a place like this in years. Not since Damien. Back then, strip clubs were in regular rotation—business and pleasure blending in seamless, sinful chaos. But the second Damien came into my life, something shifted. That doesn’t mean I don’t still notice the allure.

I approach the entrance, where a familiar face stands at his post. Tall, built like a tank, with skin the color of polished onyx, the security guard eyes me with a flicker of recognition.

“Igor Sokolov,” I say evenly, my voice clipped but polite. “Boris is expecting me.”

He nods once, knocking on the thick, steel-reinforced door. Another guard opens it, his posture stiff, his face impassive. Thepat-down comes next—standard practice, and one I don’t bother protesting. Let them search. I don’t need a gun to kill someone. My hands are more than enough.

Once cleared, I step inside. The air changes immediately—warmer, thicker, humming with the low thrum of bass and faint laughter. A final guard pulls back the velvet curtain, and suddenly, the backstage area stretches out before me in a wash of bright lights and polished black platforms.

The stages are empty except for one, where a set of spotlights dance over a woman who moves like smoke in the air—fluid, effortless, intoxicating. The music pours through the speakers in sultry waves, matching the roll of her hips as she twists herself up the pole like it’s an extension of her body. The pink of her G-string and matching crop top contrasts sharply with the violet of her hair, which spills down her back in long, glossy strands.

For a moment, the scene around me falls away. The tension in my shoulders eases. My focus narrows until there’s only her—the way she owns the space, commanding every inch of it. She tilts her head, and the lights catch in her hair, making it gleam.

Damn.

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