Page 19 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

My chest tightens.

I don’t need this. I don’t needhim.

“You ever stop performing?” I refuse to even look up. “Is this who you really are, or just a defense mechanism with abs?”

His breath hitches before he answers. Not much, just enough to confirm I struck something beneath that smug exterior.

He doesn’t answer right away.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and alive.

Then he says, softly, “Why do you care who I really am?”

I freeze.

My pulse spikes.

That is the question, isn’t it? But the truth is, I do. And that’s the problem.

A sharp, deliberate knock slices through the quiet.

We both freeze.

I'm not expecting any visitors this late.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, instinct tightening my spine.

Alessio’s head lifts, all that lazy swagger instantly vanishing as he rises from the table.

More knocks, two, maybe three, measured and heavy. Not impatient. Not friendly.

“Stay back,” Alessio says, voice suddenly low, serious.

I nod, swallowing hard as he crosses the room with quiet urgency.

He checks the peephole, stiffens. Doesn’t say a word.

But I can read it on his face. This isn’t a pizza delivery.

He unlocks the door but doesn’t open it all the way, just enough to block most of the view with his body.

A gust of cold air slips inside, sharp as the tension rippling through the room.

A man in a long, black coat stands in the hall. Slick hair. Sharp jaw. Russian, by the look of him.

Bratva.

Without a word, he slides a thin envelope into Alessio’s hand.

“This is your final warning,” he says, his thick Russian accent curling around each word, voice smooth and chilling.

Then he turns and walks away.

The door shuts with a soft click that feels deafening.

“What the hell was that?” My voice comes out too high, too thin.

Alessio stares at the envelope for a second too long.

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