Page 30 of The Mafia King's Baby

“Neither did I, in the beginning, but we make the choices we can live with, and we accept the consequences of the choices we can’t avoid.” I gesture toward Lang’s body and the blood-spattered kitchen that will need complete forensic sanitization before dawn. “Right now, we need to focus on surviving the next few hours.”

The cleanup team is still nearly two hours away, and Lang’s body can’t remain in her kitchen until they arrive. There are too many variables and too many opportunities for neighbors to notice unusual activity or emergency services to respond to reports of disturbance. We need to move him somewhere less visible that won’t compromise the scene before professional cleaners can eliminate all traces of what happened here.

I walk to the living room and examine the large area rug that covers most of the floor. It’s thick enough to contain blood and wide enough to wrap a body completely. The pattern will help camouflage stains, and the material can be disposed of along with its contents when the cleanup crew arrives.

“What are you doing?” Celia’s voice carries a note of hysteria that suggests she’s beginning to understand what I’m asking of her.

“We need to wrap him and get him out of the kitchen. The cleanup crew won’t arrive for at least two hours, and we can’t leave a federal agent’s body where anyone might see it.” I start rolling back the edges of the rug, treating this like any other operational challenge that requires practical solutions. “We use this to contain the blood and move him somewhere less visible.”

“You want me to help you hide a dead body.” She sounds almost numb.

“I want us to survive this without spending the rest of our lives in federal prison.” I turn to face her directly, letting her see the seriousness in my expression. “Lang came here on his own, without backup or official authorization. He broke into yourhouse and threatened you with violence. What happened next was self-defense, but no one will believe that if they find his corpse in your kitchen.”

“Because you’re a criminal and I’m?—”

“Because he’s a federal agent and we’re civilians who killed him during what will be characterized as a drug-related home invasion. The official story will be that I used you to hide evidence from a federal investigation, then eliminated the agent when he investigated.”

The explanation makes her flinch. She needs to understand her cooperation isn’t optional, that the line between victim and criminal has already been crossed, and that survival depends on accepting new rules for a world she never wanted to enter.

I drag the rug into the kitchen, spreading it beside Lang’s body. The work ahead of us is unpleasant but necessary, another bridge burned in the process of protecting ourselves from consequences we can’t escape.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says in a whisper.

“Neither did I, the first time, but you learn quickly when the alternative is prison or death.” I kneel beside Lang’s body and check his pockets for identification and personal effects that might complicate disposal. “Help me roll him onto the rug, then we’ll wrap him completely.”

“I can’t. I can’t touch him.”

“You can, and you will, because the alternative is explaining to federal investigators why a rogue agent’s body was found in your kitchen.” I look at her directly, letting her see the certainty in myface. “This isn’t about what you’re comfortable with anymore but about what you need to do to survive.”

She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch her internal struggle play out across her features. The woman who trusted a charming businessman battles with the reality of what that trust has cost her, while the survivor she’ll need to become measures the price of cooperation against the consequences of refusal.

Finally, she pushes herself up from the hallway floor and walks toward Lang’s body with the mechanical movement of someone operating beyond their emotional capacity. She doesn’t look at his face or acknowledge the growing pool of blood, focusing instead on the practical challenge of what we need to accomplish.

“What do you need me to do?”

The words are a surrender of sorts. I hate seeing how it diminishes her, but there’s no time for coddling at the moment. We’re forced to work together in this grisly task, and a pang of regret hits me, because I don’t see how she’ll ever trust me again once this is over.

13

Celia

The words leave my mouth before I can take them back. “What do you need me to do?”

They hang in the air between us, a surrender that tastes bitter. Something shifts in Yefrem’s expression. It’s not relief, but something darker. Regret, maybe. Like he knows what this moment costs me, and what it takes from who I used to be.

“Help me roll him onto the center of the rug.” His voice carries a gentleness that seems wrong given what we’re about to do. “Try not to let any blood drip off the edges.”

I stare down at Marcus Lang’s body sprawled across my kitchen floor. The blood has spread farther than I thought possible, seeping into the grout between tiles and pooling in the slight depression where the refrigerator used to sit before I had it moved during the renovations. The metallic smell fills my nostrils, sharp and nauseating, mixing with the lingering scent of the vanilla candle I’d lit earlier, when my biggest concern was whether the Wi-Fi password was strong enough.

Less than two weeks ago, my most stressful decision was choosing between Benjamin Moore’s “Sea Salt” or “Gray Owl” for the guest room walls before going with “Soothing Sage.” Now, I’m staring at a federal agent’s corpse in a pool of blood on my subway tile.

Yefrem positions himself on one side of the body while I take the other. Lang’s face is turned away from me, thank God, but I can see the back of his head where…where Yefrem shot him. The wound is smaller than I expected from movies, but the damage is devastating. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, fighting waves of nausea. “I don’t think I can touch him.”

“You don’t have to touch him directly. Just grab his jacket or his clothes.”

Even that feels impossible. This is a person. Was a person. Someone’s son, and maybe someone’s husband or father. Now he’s just…meat. Dead meat we need to move so we don’t go to prison.

The thought jolts me into action. Prison. Orange jumpsuits and concrete cells and explaining to my mother why her daughter is serving life for accessory to murder. My hands shake as I grip the fabric of Lang’s suit jacket.

---