Page 38 of The Mafia King's Baby

“The night I helped Dmitri dispose of the assassin’s body, I threw up three times and couldn’t eat for two days.” The admission comes easily, another piece of honesty offered to balance the scales between us. “He had to do most of the work because I kept having panic attacks.”

“Really?”

“Really. Being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

She nods slowly, accepting the reassurance even if she doesn’t fully believe it. “Are you ready to keep driving?”

I start the engine and pull back onto the highway. The road ahead stretches into darkness, but the destination is clear now. We’re going to my safehouse in Idaho, where we’ll figure out our next moves and wait for the chaos following Lang’s death to settle into predictable patterns.

It takesus another day and a half of driving, stopping only for gas and food and a few hours of sleep in the car at a rest area. By the time we reach the compound, we’re both exhausted and hollow-eyed, running on adrenaline and stubbornness.

The safehouse sits on two hundred acres of former prepper property outside Sandpoint, surrounded by forest and accessible only by a single dirt road that winds through trees for three miles before reaching the gate. The previous owner spent a fortune on security systems and reinforcement, then found out he couldn’t prepare against stage-four liver cancer and had no one to give his property to, since he’d spent so long walling himself off from the world.

I bought it through shell companies and holding corporations, then spent another fortune upgrading the electronics even more and adding trustworthy personnel. It’s one of three fortress-like properties I maintain around the world for situations exactly like this one—remote, secure, and stocked with everything needed for extended stays. I have safe houses, but they’re a joke compared to this property.

Leonid meets us at the gate, materializing from behind a tree with the silent efficiency that made him invaluable in Saint Petersburg and keeps him alive in America. He was Dmitri’s friend first, but he’s like a brother to me now. His eyes are the same—calculating, cautious, and missing nothing.

“You look like hell.” His greeting is characteristically blunt, delivered in accented English for Celia’s benefit.

“Feel worse.” I get out of the car and stretch muscles that have been cramped for hours. “Any problems?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” Leonid’s attention shifts to Celia, who’s climbing out of the passenger seat with the careful movements of someone operating beyond their normal limits. “This is her?” His disapproval is overt.

“Celia Bourn. Celia, this is Leonid Buzinsky.”

She extends her hand with automatic politeness, and Leonid shakes it with surprising gentleness. His expression softens slightly as he takes in her appearance, noting she’s disheveled and exhausted, but still trying to maintain social conventions in circumstances that have moved far beyond normal courtesy. He’s still clearly disapproving, but the slight softening is encouraging.

“Welcome.” His tone carries slight warmth beneath the formal words. “You are safe here.”

“Thank you.”

The simple exchange highlights everything wrong with this situation. Celia shouldn’t be here and shouldn’t need to be grateful for safety in a fortified compound run by Russian criminals. She should be home in her renovated house, worryingabout guest reviews and job applications, not learning to navigate the protocols of organized crime.

But she is here, and she’s handling it with more grace than I expected. It’s another sign of the strength I’m learning to recognize in her that allowed her to help bury a federal agent and drive for two days without completely losing her mind.

“Come,” says Leonid, gesturing toward the main building. “I’ll show you around and get you settled.” The words must be for Celia because I’m familiar with the property. That he’s trying to make her feel welcome removes some of my concerns.

As we walk toward the compound, I catch Leonid giving me a look that says we need to talk privately and soon. Bringing Celia here complicates everything and introduces variables that could compromise operational security and put everyone at risk.

Yet looking at her now, walking beside us with quiet dignity despite everything she’s been through, I know I made the right choice. I wouldn’t want her anywhere else but at my side. Knowing how selfish that is doesn’t override the deep sense of satisfaction I have that she’s part of my world now.

The compound’s main building comes into view, solid and reassuring against the backdrop of forest and mountains. Home, at least temporarily. A place where we can rest, plan, and figure out how to build something lasting from the ruins of what our lives used to be.

It’s not much, but it’s a beginning.

15

Celia

The water runs brown at first, then red, then finally clear as I scrub away three days of accumulated grime and horror. The shower is nothing fancy, but the water pressure is perfect and the temperature is warm enough, which are luxuries I hadn’t realized I was missing until now.

I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work through muscles that have been tense for days. My shoulders ache from carrying Lang’s body and sitting in the car for so long. There’s a bruise on my hip from somewhere. Was it during the encounter with Lang, or afterward, while moving his body? The physical evidence of what we’ve done is written on my skin.

I wash my hair twice, working my fingers through tangles that formed somewhere between California and exhaustion. The shampoo smells like generic flowers, which is nothing like the expensive stuff I use at home, but it’s clean and normal and blessedly ordinary. For twenty minutes, I can pretend I’m justa woman taking a shower after a long trip, not someone who helped bury a federal agent’s body in a forest clearing.

When I finally turn off the water, the silence is absolute. No traffic, no neighbors, and no sounds of civilization filter through the walls. Just my breathing and the drip of water from the faucet and the distant hum of whatever security systems keep this place hidden from the world.

I dry off with a towel, then examine myself in the mirror above the sink. I look different. Not just tired or stressed but fundamentally changed in ways that go deeper than appearance. My eyes are harder and more guarded. My mouth sits differently, like I’m perpetually braced for bad news.

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