Page 5 of The Mafia King's Baby

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my laptop, connecting to Celia’s Wi-Fi to check encrypted communications channels and news feeds. I find nothing urgent and no indication that my absence has been noticed by anyone who matters. Leonid will be wondering about my status, but he knows better than to push for information when operational security is at stake.

As I work, I think about my host, almost unconsciously. Celia Bourn, recently unemployed marketing manager, is opening her home to strangers as a way to make ends meet. There’s something brave about that decision that contrasts sharply with the cynicism that pervades my world.

I wonder what circumstances convinced her that renting rooms to strangers was her best option. The background check revealed the job loss but not the personal details, nor the dreams and disappointments that shape a person’s choices.

In another life, another version of myself might have been the kind of guest she was expecting, a legitimate traveler with normal problems and ordinary stories. I could have been someone who could make conversation over coffee in the morning without constantly editing his words for security concerns.

That version of myself died along with my brother Dmitri, killed by men who saw opportunity in our organization’s moment of vulnerability. The person who climbed these stairs tonight carries too much blood on his hands to pretend innocence, even temporarily.

Still, there’s something seductive about the illusion of normal this place represents. For one night, I can sleep in a room decorated with care by someone who believes in the fundamental goodness of strangers. I can pretend my biggest concerns are morning traffic and coffee quality rather than federal investigations and assassination attempts.

The laptop screen reflects my face, and I see the toll that months of running have taken. There are dark circles under my eyes and lines of tension around my mouth from the constant alertness that never quite fades even in moments of relative safety. I look like what I am—a man who’s been pushed to his limits and is still standing through sheer stubborn will.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to become the crime boss who makes hard decisions and accepts brutal consequences again, but tonight, in this quiet room in this peaceful house, I can be Aleks Sokolov for a few hours longer.

I close the laptop and prepare for bed. I position my weapon for quick access, memorize the escape routes, and mentally review emergency plans.

As I settle into bed, I think about Celia’s genuine smile when she welcomed me at the door, the care she put into preparing this room, and the kind of life that allows someone to trust strangers enough to invite them into their home. It’s been so long since I encountered that kind of openness that I’d almost forgotten it existed. In my world, every interaction is a negotiation, everyrelationship is transactional, and trust is a luxury that gets people killed.

Here, tonight, surrounded by sage green walls and the scent of whatever flowers Celia placed on the dresser, I remember what it felt like to exist in a world where kindness wasn’t weakness and trust wasn’t stupidity.

The memory is bittersweet, a reminder of everything I’ve lost in exchange for power and survival, but it’s also oddly comforting and proof that somewhere beyond the world I inhabit, normal life continues. People still believe in hospitality and human connection, still create beauty for its own sake, and still open their doors to strangers because they choose hope over fear.

I fall asleep thinking about that choice, about the courage it takes to remain optimistic in a world that provides plenty of reasons for cynicism. For the first time in months, I sleep without dreaming of Marcus Lang or the men who want me dead. Instead, I dream of sage green walls and safety found in the most unlikely places. I also dream of Celia’s warm smile and the unexpected kindness, having no idea what she’s offering to the monster who knocked on her door in the middle of the night.

3

Celia

Ilie in bed staring at the ceiling, wide awake despite the exhaustion that should have knocked me out hours ago. The digital clock on my nightstand glows 12:43 a.m. in accusatory red numbers, but sleep refuses to come.

Every small sound in the house seems amplified in the darkness. The refrigerator cycling on downstairs, the old floorboards settling, and the wind rattling my bedroom window take on a sinister note. They are normal house noises that I’ve lived with for three years, but tonight they feel different because I’m not alone anymore.

There’s a stranger sleeping in my guest room.

A stranger named Aleks Sokolov.

Even his name sounds mysterious, rolling around in my mind like a marble in a jar. I keep replaying our brief interaction from an hour ago, analyzing every detail because something abouthim doesn’t quite fit the mental image I’d constructed of my first guest.

When I pictured the kind of person who might book my room, I imagined middle-aged business travelers with rumpled shirts and tired eyes, or maybe young couples on budget vacations who couldn’t afford lakefront resorts. I definitely didn’t expect someone who looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread about successful European entrepreneurs.

Aleks appeared younger than I’d anticipated, probably early thirties, with dark hair that was perfectly styled despite his late arrival and apparent travel delays. His clothes were expensive but understated, the kind of quality that whispers rather than shouts about wealth. Even at nearly midnight, he looked put-together in a way that suggested either natural confidence or careful attention to appearance.

That accent threw me too. Subtle, but definitely there. Eastern European? I couldn't quite place it. Intriguing. Combined with that careful politeness... what was his background? And why would he come to Lake Tahoe so late?

I roll onto my side and pull the covers to my chin, trying to get comfortable while my mind continues racing. His booking request had been so last-minute and so urgent. “Need accommodation for one night. Arriving late due to travel delays.” What kind of business requires someone to travel at night to a small mountain town? What kind of delays keep someone on the road until almost midnight on a Tuesday?

The questions multiply in my brain like bacteria, feeding off my natural tendency to overthink everything. This is exactly the kind of spiral that Tripp used to call my “investigation mode,”when I’d fixate on inconsistencies and try to solve puzzles that probably didn’t exist.

“Not everyone has ulterior motives, Celia,” he’d say whenever I questioned the behavior of acquaintances or coworkers. “Sometimes, people are exactly who they appear to be.”

Coming from someone who turned out to have his own hidden agenda about our relationship, that advice feels particularly hollow now, though maybe there’s still some truth to it. Maybe Aleks really is just a businessman with travel delays who happened to find my listing at the right moment.

I force myself to take a deep breath and practice the relaxation techniques I learned from a meditation app during the worst days after the breakup. Focus on the present moment. Accept what you can observe without adding imaginary complications. Aleks booked a room, arrived when he said he would and behaved politely during our brief interaction. Everything else is speculation.

He did radiate a certain energy though, something I can’t quite define but definitely felt during those few minutes at the front door. Not threatening exactly, but intense in a way that made me hyperaware of his presence. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that comes from being accustomed to control, to having people defer to his wishes without question.

The way he surveyed my living room as he entered, and his careful assessment of the space, reminded me of how my father used to examine hotel rooms when we traveled during my childhood. Dad was a security consultant for corporate clients, and he’d developed habits of noting exits and sight lines that became second nature over the years. Professional paranoia, he called it.

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