Chapter 23: Mafia Prince’s Secret Baby: Chapter 22

“Have you seen Katya and the kids?” I demand, cutting straight through my mother’s conversation with the gardener. My voice is sharp, bordering on frantic.

She rises slowly from the garden bench, her hands brushing at her pants as she turns to face me. “Not since Aleks took them to the park,” she replies, calm as ever.

“Park?” The word comes out like a curse, my eyes widening. “What the hell is he thinking? Doesn’t he know it’s dangerous?”

“Calm down, Igor,” she soothes, crossing the short distance between us. Her voice is measured, the same tone she’s used on me since I was a boy, but it does nothing to stop the storm brewing inside me.

“He took enough men to fight an army,” she adds, resting her hands lightly on my arms.

“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 does something 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. Hope that 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 and of 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 in ages!” Galina gushes, her hazel eyes wide and bright. “It feels like ages. Look at you—so handsome, so tall, so strong! 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.

“Are you driving, or shall I?” she asks, tilting her head with a grin.

Her hazel eyes gleam as she leans closer, her voice dropping. “Are you a top or a bottom?”

My body stiffens, every muscle coiling tight. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.

Galina only laughs, oblivious to how desperate she sounds.

Her touch doesn’t spark anything in me. Not desire, nor any interest. My mind drifts to Katya—her sharp tongue, her fire, the way she invades my every waking thought. There’s no room for anyone else.

“Let’s go.” I sigh, exasperated.

The sooner I get through this, the sooner I can get back to what matters.

Galina opens the door, sliding into the passenger seat beside me.

“Front row seats,” she chirps, flashing me a grin that’s both dazzling and a little too wide. She barely waits for me to settle into the driver’s seat before turning to face me fully, her knees angled in my direction, one foot tapping against the floorboard. “Don’t want to miss a moment of the show.”

I sigh, pressing my thumb and forefinger to my temples as if that might stave off the headache pounding between my temples. She’s jittery—too much energy packed into that petite frame—and the air around her practically hums. Her movements are exaggerated, her laugh too loud, and there’s a faint glaze over her wide hazel eyes.

I clear my throat, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. “Buckle up,” I say.

She makes no move to reach for the seatbelt. Instead, she leans closer, her perfume filling the air between us. “I like it when you take charge,” she purrs, her voice low and syrupy.

“Galina,” I say flatly, ignoring the way she’s looking at me like I’m dessert. “Put your seatbelt on.”

“Fine,” she huffs, dragging the strap across her chest with exaggerated flair. As she clicks it into place, she tilts her head, watching me through her thick lashes. “You know, this could be fun if you’d just relax a little.”

“This is going to be a long fucking night,” I mutter under my breath, starting the engine.

“Don’t be such a buzzkill,” she teases, her hand brushing lightly against my forearm. “Besides, I’m starving. What’s the plan? Something romantic? Candlelight, wine, a little hand-holding?”

I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, ignoring the way her nails trace an idle pattern on my forearm. “I hope you’re hungry for actual food because that’s where we’re going. A restaurant.”

She pouts, her full lips pushing out in an expression that probably works wonders on men. Other men. “You sure you can control yourself until then?” she flirts, her voice dripping with false innocence.

I grunt, refusing to dignify the question with a response. She mistakes my silence for something else entirely and lets out a high, bubbling giggle.

The sound grates against my nerves. It’s not like Katya’s laugh—the one that’s always reluctant, like she’s fighting to hold it back even when something amuses her. No, Katya wouldn’t act like this. She wouldn’t throw herself at me, wouldn’t fill the silence with mindless chatter or desperate attempts to impress me. Katya would meet me nose to nose, an equal, but with that wild, untamed fire of hers sparking just beneath the surface.

I sigh, wishing for what feels like the hundredth time tonight that it was Katya sitting beside me. If it were her leaning closer, teasing me, I wouldn’t have to force myself to stay composed. I wouldn’t hold back. I’d have her pinned to the seat in seconds, my hands in her hair, my mouth on hers.

But it’s not Katya. It’s Galina.

And here I am, stuck going through the motions of a date I don’t want, with a woman I’ve never shown any interest in. A woman who, despite her beauty, doesn’t stir a damn thing in me.

Because the truth is, all I want is Katya. I want her to want me as desperately as I want her. To accept me for who I am, with blood on my hands. To let us be a family.

But that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is getting through this night without losing what little patience I have left.

Galina shifts in her seat, leaning over the console again, her lips parted to say something else. I’m not in the mood to hear it.

I slam my foot on the gas, the car lurching forward with a squeal of tires. The force throws her back against her seat, cutting off whatever inane comment she was about to make.

For the first time since this nightmare began, there’s blissful silence.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road, while Galina sits stunned and quiet beside me. If only I could figure out a way to keep her that way for the rest of the evening.