Page 24 of The Mafia King's Baby

“I’m sure you do, ma’am, but sometimes, criminals use legitimate businesses without the owner’s knowledge.” Agent Lang reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a photograph, holding it where I can see through the gap in the door. “Have you seen this man recently?”

The photograph shows Aleks clearly, though he looks different somehow. More serious and dangerous, like someone who belongs in a federal investigation rather than sharing wine and conversation in my living room. The image appears to be from surveillance footage rather than a casual snapshot, grainy and taken from a distance that suggests official monitoring.

My mouth goes dry as I stare at the picture of the man who shared my bed a week ago, and whose mysterious notebook disappeared from my house under circumstances I still don’t understand. Every instinct Dad taught me about self-preservation screams I shouldn’t admit to recognizing him or reveal any connection that might draw federal attention to my activities.

“I don’t recognize him,” I lie, keeping my expression as neutral as possible while Sariah continues growling at Agent Lang’s feet.

“Are you certain? He may have used an alias, possibly something like Aleks Sokolov.” Lang’s eyes narrow slightly as he studies my reaction to the name. “We have reason to believe he stayed in this area recently.”

“I told you, I don’t recognize him.” I repeat the lie with more confidence, grateful for Sariah’s continued hostility toward this man who claims to represent federal law enforcement. “If you have specific questions about my rental business, I’d be happy to provide documentation through proper legal channels.”

Agent Lang’s friendly facade cracks entirely, revealing something harder and more threatening underneath. He takes a step closer to the door, and Sariah’s growling becomes more aggressive in response. “Ma’am, obstruction of a federal investigation is a serious crime. If you’re protecting someone involved in criminal activities, you could face charges yourself.”

The threat is clear and professionally delivered, but something about his approach feels wrong. Federal agents investigating legitimate crimes don’t usually make house calls without backup or proper warrants. They don’t rely on intimidation tactics with cooperative citizens, and they certainly don’t threaten charges based on someone’s failure to recognize a photograph.

Most importantly, they don’t look like they want to kick small dogs who are protecting their territory.

As if reading my thoughts, Agent Lang glances down at Sariah with obvious irritation. He shifts his weight and lifts his foot slightly, as if preparing to discourage her growling with physical force.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp and angry as protective instincts override diplomatic caution. “She’s just doing her job.”

“Control your animal, ma’am, or I’ll control it for you.”

The mask slips completely with that statement, revealing someone who views obstacles as things to be eliminated rather than problems to be solved through proper procedures. Real federal agents don’t threaten to harm pets during routine investigations, and they don’t lose their temper when citizens exercise reasonable caution about unannounced visits.

“I think you should leave.” I start to close the door, but Agent Lang’s hand shoots out to stop it.

“We’re not finished here. I’ll be back with more questions, and next time, I expect full cooperation.” His voice carries a menace that has nothing to do with federal authority and everything to do with personal threat. “Think carefully about whether you want to make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

He releases the door and steps back from the porch, but his gaze never leaves my face. The look promises consequences for my lack of cooperation that extend beyond legal procedures into something more immediate and personal. “Have a good day, ma’am. We’ll speak again soon.”

I watch through the peephole as he walks to a dark sedan parked on the street, noting the license plate and make of vehicle because I’m so rattled. Sariah continues growling until his car disappears around the corner, only then relaxing enough to accept the praise and treats I offer for her protective behavior.

My hands shake as I lock the door and check the windows. Agent Marcus Lang might be exactly who he claims to be—a federal investigator pursuing legitimate criminal activities—but every instinct I possess insists that something about his approach waswrong, and his interest in Aleks and his threats toward me represent something more personal than professional duty.

Whatever Aleks was really involved in, whoever he actually was beneath the charming businessman facade, I’ve now attracted the attention of someone who doesn’t hesitate to use intimidation and veiled threats to get information.

It clicks in my brain that the notebook that disappeared from my house contained evidence of activities federal agents are actively investigating. The man I slept with was important enough to warrant surveillance and official pursuit, and I just lied to a federal agent about my connection to both.

I sink into Mrs. Patterson’s favorite armchair with Sariah curled protectively on my lap, trying to process how a simple decision to rent out my spare bedroom has evolved into something that feels genuinely dangerous.

Outside, the suburban street looks exactly as peaceful and ordinary as it did an hour ago, but everything has changed, and I can’t ignore the feeling that Agent Marcus Lang’s promise to return represents a threat I’m not equipped to handle alone.

10

Yefrem

The mission that night was flawless in execution if not in stealth. I entered through Celia’s back door using skills developed over decades of operations that required silent movement through hostile territory. The lock yielded to tools I carry for exactly these situations, and I navigated her house in complete darkness, relying on memory and the careful mental mapping I’d done during my stay.

The notebook waited exactly where I’d left it, hidden among innocent guest amenities in the bedside table drawer. I swapped it quickly and confirmed the contents remained intact, every encrypted page documenting six years of operations that could destroy my organization if they fell into the wrong hands. The relief of reclaiming this critical evidence should have been my primary emotion as I prepared to leave.

Instead, I found myself standing in her bedroom longer than tactical wisdom advised, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume that still lingered in the air. The bed where we’d sharedintimacy and conversation looked undisturbed, made with fresh sheets that erased all physical traces of our night together, but the memory of her trust, her willingness to be vulnerable with a stranger she thought she could depend on, made leaving feel like abandonment again.

I forced myself to focus on the practical necessity of escape rather than the growing weight of guilt in my chest. Celia was safer not knowing who I really was or what I’d involved her in, safer believing that Aleks Sokolov had been exactly who he claimed to be rather than understanding the dangerous truth.

The sound of her footsteps approaching from the kitchen as I reached the back door nearly compromised everything. I had seconds to choose between securing the lock properly and avoiding detection, between protecting her house and protecting her ignorance of my presence. I chose escape over security, slipping into the darkness while leaving the door ajar as evidence of my carelessness.

She would know someone had been inside. She would wonder who and why but wondering was safer than knowing. Questions without answers couldn’t get her killed by people who view civilian casualties as acceptable collateral damage.

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