Page 4 of The Mafia King's Baby

She’s exactly what I need. A civilian with no connection to my world, and someone Lang would never think to investigate because there’s no reason she’d be connected to me. Her guest room is located in a quiet residential neighborhood, not the kind of place that attracts attention from federal surveillance teams.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent six years surrounding myself with criminals and killers, people who understand the brutal mathematics of survival in my world. Tonight, my safety depends on trusting someone who’s probably never broken a law more serious than jaywalking.

I book the room for one night, paying through the app with a credit card that’s tied to the Sokolov identity. The transaction goes through immediately, and I receive an automated confirmation along with check-in instructions. The whole process takes less than five minutes.

As I drive toward Lake Tahoe, I allow myself to feel cautiously optimistic for the first time in weeks. Lang’s investigation has been closing in like a noose, tightening day by day until I couldbarely move without looking over my shoulder, but tonight I’ll be invisible, hidden in plain sight in a suburban guest room where no one would think to look for a Russian crime boss.

The rain eases as I climb into the mountains, though the roads remain slick and treacherous. I drive carefully, avoiding the temptation to speed despite my eagerness to reach safety. Getting pulled over by a state trooper would be catastrophically stupid when I’m this close to sanctuary.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: “Welcome to your stay! Looking forward to hosting you. Check-in instructions are in the app, but feel free to call if you have any questions.—Celia”

The message is cheerful and professional, exactly what I’d expect from someone new to hosting, who’s trying to make a good impression. There’s an innocence to it that feels foreign after months of communicating only in code with people who assume every conversation might be monitored.

I wonder what she’d think if she knew what kind of guest she’s about to welcome into her carefully prepared room. Would she still send friendly text messages if she knew about the gun in my shoulder holster, or the encrypted notebook in my jacket pocket that contains enough evidence to destroy dozens of careers and lives?

Probably not.

The thought bothers me more than it should. I’ve been living in the shadow economy for so long that I’d almost forgotten what normal interactions feel like, or what it’s like to deal with people who aren’t constantly calculating angles and looking for weaknesses to exploit.

Celia Bourn is the embodiment of everything I gave up. A legitimate life. Normal conversations. Trusting someone because they had no reason to lie to me.

I shake off the melancholy. Nostalgia is a luxury I can’t afford, especially when my survival depends on staying focused and alert. I’m not doing this to reclaim some lost innocence. I’m finding a safe place to sleep and plan my next move against Lang.

Yet as I turn into Celia’s neighborhood, I can’t quite suppress the curiosity about what kind of person opens her home to strangers, and what kind of life she’s built in this quiet corner of the world that’s about to intersect briefly with mine.

The houses here are modest but well-maintained, with small front yards and mature trees that suggest established families rather than transient renters. Porch lights are on in most homes, and I see the blue glow of television screens through several windows. It’s the kind of neighborhood where people know their neighbors’ names and notice unfamiliar cars parked on the street.

I’ll have to be careful not to attract attention here.

Celia’s house sits on a corner lot. It’s a small craftsman-style home with a neatly trimmed hedge and a front porch that looks like it gets regular use. The porch light is on, and there are lights in the front windows, which means she’s home and probably waiting for me to arrive.

I park in the driveway as instructed and sit for a moment, studying the house and the surrounding area. There are no suspicious vehicles, no obvious surveillance, and no indication that Lang’s people have somehow anticipated my destination.The neighborhood feels genuinely peaceful, and the kind of place where the biggest crime is probably teenagers drinking beer in the park after curfew.

My phone shows it’s almost midnight. I’m arriving later than I’d hoped, but the time I’d entered on the app should have prepared her for a late arrival. I grab my overnight bag—carefully packed to look like normal travel luggage rather than a go-bag designed for emergency escapes—and walk to the front door.

The doorbell echoes softly inside the house, followed by the sound of footsteps on hardwood floors. I hear the deadbolt turn, and then the door opens to reveal Celia Bourn in person.

She’s smaller than I expected from her photo, maybe five-foot-seven in the slippers she’s wearing. Her brown hair is pulled back in a casual ponytail, and she’s dressed in jeans and a sweater that suggests she was relaxing at home rather than putting on a show for her guest. Her smile is genuine but slightly nervous, which makes sense given that it’s nearly midnight and she’s about to let a stranger into her house.

“You must be Aleks,” she says, her voice warm despite the late hour. “I’m Celia. Welcome to Lake Tahoe.”

“Thank you for accommodating the late arrival,” I say, keeping my voice neutral and polite. The Sokolov identity comes with a slight accent—not Russian, which would be too obvious, but something vaguely Eastern European that explains any unusual cadence in my speech without raising specific questions.

“No problem at all. I know travel plans can be unpredictable.” She steps aside to let me enter, and I catch a glimpse of the main living area. Comfortable furniture is arranged neatly, with a couple of full bookshelves and family photos on the mantle.It’s the kind of home that screams stability and routine, qualities that feel refreshingly unfamiliar after the chaos of recent months.

“The guest room is just upstairs,” she says, leading the way. “I’ve put fresh towels in the bathroom, and there’s a coffee maker in the room if you need caffeine in the morning. The Wi-Fi password is on the welcome note.”

I follow her up a narrow staircase, noting the escape routes automatically. There’s the front door, a back door visible through the kitchen, and windows on both floors. The guest room is exactly as advertised—clean, comfortable, and unremarkable. It’s the kind of space that won’t stick in anyone’s memory, which makes it perfect for my purposes. Celia has clearly put thought into the details, from the quality of the linens to the small basket of toiletries on the dresser.

“This is perfect,” I say, and I mean it. Not because of the décor or amenities, but because it represents a place where I can sleep without keeping one eye open for threats, which is something I haven’t had in months.

“I’ll let you get settled then,” she says, lingering in the doorway for a moment. “If you need anything during your stay, don’t hesitate to ask.”

After she leaves, I lock the door and do a thorough sweep of the room, checking for cameras or listening devices out of professional paranoia rather than any real suspicion. The search turns up nothing more sinister than dust bunnies under the bed and a small spider in the corner of the window.

I unpack my bag carefully, hanging my jacket in the closet and placing the encrypted notebook in the bedside table drawer.The weapon stays within easy reach but hidden from casual observation. Even in this peaceful suburban setting, I’m not naïve enough to assume I’m completely safe.

Still, for the first time in weeks, I allow myself to relax slightly. The room is quiet, the neighborhood is settled for the night, and there’s no indication that Lang’s investigation has followed me here. I have until morning to rest and plan my next move.

---