Page 59 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

I miss this. The heat. The pull. The easy, uncomplicated thrill.

Without breaking stride, I move toward the leather chairs near the stage, choosing the seat closest to her. She climbs the pole effortlessly, her body curving and bending in ways that make it hard to look away.

For a split second, I let my mind wander—her body moving against the pole, the sway of her hips, the imagined press of her skin against mine. I could almost feel the brush of her hair dragging over my thighs, her breath hot against my stomach. It’s an indulgent thought, the kind I don’t have time for right now.

I shut my eyes and pull in a deep breath, letting the air cool my head. When I open them, it’s not her I’m looking at anymore.

“Igor Sokolov,” a familiar voice greets me, deep and gravelly with just the right amount of smugness to set my teeth on edge. Boris Olenko looms over me with a grin that’s a little too friendly. “I was expecting your brother. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Boris isn’t the man at the top of the food chain, but he’s hungry—always has been. He’s carved out his little empire in the dirtier corners of the city, running this place like a kingpin even if he’s nothing more than a mid-level pawn. I glance around as half-drunk assholes hoot and holler at the stripper still working the pole. She’s moved on, grinding against another girl perched on a stool like it’s the highlight of her morning. A few men shove cash into their matching pink thongs, some shouting obscene suggestions, others just cheering like animals at a zoo. The girls pay them no mind—they’re pros, giving just enough to keep the wallets open but not the slightest bit more.

“Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private,” I tell him, forcing my focus back to the matter at hand. But not before I steal one last peek at the dancer.

Boris doesn’t miss my glance, and his grin stretches wider, a predator who thinks he’s caught the scent of something he can use. “Nevertheless, it’s a treat to see you here. You always did know where to find true pleasure,” he quips.

“Under a woman’s body,” I reply evenly, letting my own grin creep in. There’s no point in being stiff with him—it’ll only put him on edge.

“Exactly,” Boris says, pursing his lips as his gaze sweeps the room. “Come. We’ll talk in my office.”

“Lead the way.”

I follow him past a semi-circular table decked out with floral bouquets and half-empty bottles of top-shelf liquor. A sad little setup for a sad morning crowd. Weekdays are slow for strip clubs, and Boris’s is no exception. Unlike most places, hisdancers start fully clothed, stripping away layers piece by piece as their performances heat up. It’s all part of the production. A little tease, a little restraint—it keeps the drunks coming back for more.

Boris leads me to a dark, narrow hallway at the back of the club. The noise fades behind us, swallowed by the oppressive quiet of the corridor. At the very end, we stop in front of a white door. Boris pulls a heavy steel key from his pocket, the metal scraping as it turns in the lock. He pushes the door open, stepping inside, and I follow him into the dim, cramped space he calls his office.

I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been here. It’s not a place I enjoy revisiting. Boris has never been one for blood or weapons—those aren’t his vices. Women are. To him, they’re a commodity, a thrill to be consumed and discarded as easily as a cigarette. And while he treats them like employees on paper—ensuring no customer gets too attached or crosses too many lines—he takes liberties of his own. Every new girl on his payroll has to endure his “welcome to the team” ritual. They’re his to sample first, and no one dares say otherwise.

The bastard has three legitimate kids, but everyone knows that’s just the tip of the iceberg. His illegitimate offspring probably outnumber the bottles of booze he keeps stocked behind his desk. And the worst part? He somehow manages to keep it all looking clean. He’s a professional sleaze, orchestrating the kind of sordid debauchery most men only dream of while still finding a way to slap a bow on it and call it business. Hell, he even finds homes for the kids he fathers, like he’s some kind of humanitarian.

It makes my skin crawl just being in the same room as him. The urge to plant his face into the nearest wall simmers under the surface, but I choke it down. The job comes first.

“Take a seat,” Boris says, gesturing toward one of the leather chairs across from his desk.

I lower myself into the chair but don’t relax. My posture is stiff, my hands loose but ready at my sides. Boris might look comfortable, but men like him are always calculating.

“What can I do for you, Igor?” Boris asks as he saunters over to the liquor cabinet.

I follow him with my eyes, taking in his casual air. It’s like he’s hosting a goddamn dinner party instead of entertaining the son of apakhan.

“We’ve had some issues with a shipment from Colombia,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “I was hoping you could help shed some light on the matter.”

Boris pulls out a bottle of vodka and pours himself a glass, neat. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“The cargo,” I clarify. “It was stolen.”

Boris freezes, glass midair, his eyebrows lifting in what looks like surprise—though with Boris, everything is an act. “Oh, my,” he breathes dramatically, then pours another glass. “In that case, you probably need this more than I do.”

He slides the glass across the desk. I catch it before it spills, the chill seeping into my hand. I take a sip, the sharp bite of the vodka burning down my throat. It’s cheap garbage. The kind of stuff you buy at a gas station for a few bucks. A power play, no doubt—Boris Olenko never serves the good stuff unless there’s something in it for him.

“What’s your involvement in all of this?” Boris asks, leaning back into his chair like we’re just two old friends having a casual chat.

I swallow the vodka, exhaling a long breath before answering. “None. It was my brother who fucked up.”

Boris’s eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. “Aleksander?”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “Mikhail.”

“Ah,” Boris says knowingly, a smile tugging at his lips. “That makes more sense.”

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