Page 76 of Mafia Prince's Secret Baby

My breath hitches, and I close my eyes, forcing the words out in a low whisper. “Katya’s in the hospital.”

There’s a pause on her end.

“I don’t know what happened,” I continue quickly, before she can ask. “But I need you to distract the kids. Don’t tell them anything. Make up an excuse why we can’t talk to them, okay? Keep them busy until I figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Igor—”

But I don’t let her finish. I hang up.

Katarina knows me too well. She’s always been able to see straight through me, past the mask I wear for everyone else. And right now, I can’t handle her asking questions. Can’t handle her prying into the cracks that are threatening to split me wide open.

The only thing I can think about is Katya.

Is she awake? Is she safe? Is she?—

“We’re almost there,” Konstantin says, breaking into my spiraling thoughts.

“Not fast enough,” I grunt, my tone harsher than intended.

There must be something in my voice that hits him because the next thing I know, I’m thrown back against the seat asKonstantin slams on the gas, weaving through traffic with reckless precision. My body presses against the door as the car swerves, the tires screeching around a corner.

I don’t care. Let him total the car if it means getting there faster.

Sweat drips from my temples, and I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to ease the pounding headache that’s only getting worse. It’s the kind of pain no amount of medication can fix.

The hospital comes into view, its sterile white facade looming ahead like a beacon. My chest tightens further, every fiber of my being focused on one thing: getting to her.

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Whatever I’m about to walk into, I need to be ready.

The car screeches to a stop, Konstantin pulls open the door, and I run inside, my heart thrumming against my chest.

27

KATYA

How did things turn this bad?

Here I am, lying in a hospital bed, staring at the dull, soul-sucking white ceiling. The grime and blood have been cleaned from my body and my wounds are patched up. Someone tucked a blanket over me, though it feels more like a barrier than comfort. The drugs they gave me are strong, clouding my thoughts, numbing the worst of the pain.

And yet, every inch of my body feels heavy, my muscles deadweight, my bones throbbing like they’ve been battered with a bat. The dull ache of a sprained ankle keeps me from moving more than a few inches.

Earlier, a young cop asked a few questions, but I couldn’t string my thoughts together, let alone my words. He promised to come back later. At least that’s one thing I don’t have to deal with right now.

The machines beside me beep with a steady rhythm, each sound a cruel reminder of the frightening incident. The cold, sterile hospital smells mingle with the lingering scent of antiseptic and metal, suffocating me. For once, I’m thankful forthe drugs fogging my thoughts. Without them, all that would remain is the dull dread.

Since I fell unconscious in that convenience store, it feels like I’ve been running through a dark maze, unable to breathe, unable to swallow, unable to escape the shadows chasing me.

How did my life turn into this?

I should’ve stayed in Moscow. I miss Moscow. The sharp, biting cold of winter mornings, the glittering lights of the Kremlin at night, the endless energy that hums through its streets.

There, I had control. People stood when I entered the courtroom. They respected my decisions, even when they didn’t like them. My life was structured, predictable, a carefully constructed puzzle where every piece fit perfectly. In Moscow, I wasn’t just Katya—I was Judge Volkova. A woman in a position of power and respect, someone people admired—or at the very least, feared.

Here in New York, everything is foreign, jagged, like I’m trying to fit into a life that isn’t mine. The streets are too loud, the faces too unfamiliar, the pulse of the city too frenetic.

And Igor embodies everything Moscow wasn’t for me—danger, unpredictability. Here in New York, I don’t belong. Not to this city, not to this life, and not to this man.

A knot twists in my stomach, tight and unrelenting. Another round of tears gathers at the corners of my eyes. I breathe deeply, but the pain in my ribs makes me wince. A blurry memory flashes across my mind—Igor’s face, his words, the way he looked at me last night.

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