Page 64 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

“This isn’t a joke,” I growl, meeting her gaze as my shoulders lock into place, tense and unyielding. My entire body feels like it’s been wound too tight, like one wrong move could snap something vital. Aleks thinks he’s clever, but if he doessomething stupid, it won’t just cost him his life—it’ll cost Sofiya’s and Damien’s too.

“They’re not prisoners,” my mother says gently, planting a kiss on my cheek. Her familiar scent cuts through the haze of my frustration, just enough to pull me back to the present.

For the first time, I take stock of my surroundings. The air is warm and sticky, the sun high overhead making my shirt cling to my back. Only a few gray clouds dot the blue sky. Around us, the maid tends to the flowerbeds, and the gardener busies himself trimming hedges. They’re working hard, but I know they’re listening—careful to avoid eye contact, careful not to give me a reason to lash out at them.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I rumble, turning away. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Now?” my mother asks, her brow furrowing.

“It’s a work thing.” I shrug, not bothering to elaborate. No way in hell I’m telling her I’ve been roped into taking Galina Olenko out to dinner.

“You’re always working,” she says under her breath, but I catch it anyway. “Who will work when you’re not alive anymore?”

I can’t help but grin. “One can only hope I stay alive. Dying isn’t in my five-year plan.”

“Good,” she says simply, giving me a subtle nod of approval. “See you later.”

She doesn’t press me for more details, though her concern is written all over her face—the tension in her lips, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. My mother worries enough for the entire family, but she knows better than to question me.

I head back to my room, stripping as I go. The second the hot water hits my skin, the tension starts to ease. Worry washes away with the soap and steam, leaving behind the faintest flicker of hope. Hope that I’ll keep everyone under this roof safe. Hopethat I’ll somehow convince Katya to give me a chance. Maybe—just maybe—we could be a family.

Half an hour later, I’m dressed in a clean gray suit, tie perfectly knotted, shirt neatly tucked and feeling the weight of duty once more. I strap my ankle holster to my leg and slide my Glock into place. It’s second nature by now, like breathing. I tug my slacks down over the holster and smooth out the wrinkles.

The scars on my body don’t bother me. I earned them. Each one tells a story of survival andof a battle won. All except the one on my head, from the time a sniper’s bullet came within a millimeter of ending me. That scar is a constant reminder of the day Nikolai fucking Volkov saved my life.

Katya and the kids aren’t home yet, but for once, I know where they are. Aleks texted me earlier, asking if the kids could have McDonald’s. I can just imagine how that scene’s playing out—Damien and Lev arguing over Happy Meal toys, Sofiya giggling in the corner, ketchup smeared across her cheek. It’s better they’re not here to see me leave, dressed to the nines for a date I don’t want to go on. If you can even call it that.

I drive straight to Olenko’s house, parking across the street. The small Victorian stands out against the block, its bright exterior and meticulous upkeep making it look more like a dollhouse than the den of a man like Boris Olenko.

I scan my surroundings, checking every car, every window, every shadow. A few pedestrians pass by, but none of them set off any alarms. When I’m satisfied the area is clear, I cross the street and knock on the door.

Three minutes pass before I hear Olenko barking orders at his men. But before they can open the door, Galina beats them to it.

The door swings open, and a whirlwind of orange fabric throws itself at me.

“I haven’t seen you inages!” Galina gushes, her hazel eyes wide and bright. “Itfeelslike ages. Look at you—so handsome, so tall, sostrong! I love your blazer. Is it Armani? You do like a tasteful and sharp design, don’t you?”

Galina is, as always, a complete disaster. Her long auburn curls bounce wildly around her shoulders, and her dress is so short I wonder if it even qualifies as one. The neckline plunges obscenely low, and pearls cling to her slender throat. Her heels are so high I can’t fathom how she manages to walk in them without breaking an ankle.

She’s always been over the top, but tonight she’s on a whole other level. I already know this evening is going to drag, and all I can do is humor her until dessert. After that, I’m out.

“Ready to go?” I ask, ignoring her rambling.

“Oh, hon.” She laughs, the sound high-pitched and overly sweet. She circles me, her fingers brushing against my sleeve as she giggles like a schoolgirl. Her lips are painted red, and when she licks them, I catch a faint chemical tang in the air. Her eyes are slightly pink, and her movements are… exaggerated. Not drunk.

High.

She links her arm through mine, tugging me forward. “Don’t you want to say hi to Daddy first?” she asks, then shakes her head, answering her own question. “On second thought, let’s skip that. I don’t want to spend half of our date with my parents.”

She drags me down the steps and across the lawn with surprising ease, practically yanking me into the street. A car whizzes by, too close for comfort, and I steady her before we both become roadkill.

When we reach the sidewalk, she presses me against the car, her body molding itself to mine.

“What the fuck?” I growl, grabbing her by both shoulders and holding her at arm’s length.

She pouts, her free hand trailing down my arm to squeeze my bicep. “Don’t pretend we’re not supposed to have fun tonight,” she says, her voice dripping with suggestion.

“Fun,” I echo dryly.

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