Page 50 of The Mafia King's Baby

“What kind of problems?”

“The kind that require flexibility and discretion,” says Yefrem. “The kind that government agencies create through bureaucracy and politics.”

I think about Marcus Lang, corruption within federal law enforcement, and the blurred lines between criminal and victim in their world. Maybe Leonid has a point. Maybe someone does need to operate in those gray areas, even if the personal cost is enormous.

We stop for the night at a roadside motel that’s seen better decades. It’s the kind of place that rents by the hour, takes cash, and doesn’t ask questions, with thin walls and questionable plumbing but beds that are clean enough and doors that lock securely.

Leonid takes the room next to ours, close enough to respond to trouble but far enough away to provide privacy. The arrangement feels deliberate, and I wonder how much of our relationship is obvious to someone who’s known Yefrem for years.

“Are you having second thoughts?” asks Yefrem once we’re alone in our cramped but reasonably clean room.

I sit on the edge of the bed and consider the question honestly. “About coming with you? No. About everything else? Constantly.”

He joins me on the bed, close enough that our knees touch. “Everything else like what?”

“Like what I’m becoming. What I’ve already become.” I turn to face him fully. “Two weeks ago, I was someone who returnedextra change to cashiers and felt guilty about jaywalking. Now I’m an accessory to murder, fleeing federal investigation, and traveling with armed criminals to meet with corrupt officials.”

“You’re surviving. There’s no shame in that.”

“Isn’t there?” I study his face, noting the way shadows from the single lamp make his features appear sharper and more dangerous. “At what point does survival become complicity? When do I stop being a victim and start being a criminal?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, considering my question with the seriousness it deserves. “I don’t know. That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

The honesty is refreshing even if it’s not comforting. “What would you do? In my position?”

“I’d do exactly what you’re doing. I’d make the best choices available from a set of terrible options and try not to lose myself in the process.”

“How do you not lose yourself? How do you maintain any sense of who you are when everything around you is violence and deception?”

He reaches up and touches my face with gentle fingers. “By holding onto the things that matter. By protecting the people who make life worth living.”

The way he looks at me when he says it makes my heart race not just with desire, though that’s certainly present, but something deeper and more complicated. Something that feels dangerously close to love in spite of only knowing him a short time. There’s a level of honesty between us in this compacted time frame thatstrips away pretense and reveals true, raw emotion. “Yefrem.” His name comes out as a whisper.

“I know.” He leans closer, eliminating the space between us. “I know it’s complicated. I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s probably a mistake.”

“Then why?—”

He silences me with a kiss that’s different from last night’s desperate passion. This is slower and sensitive, carrying emotions that neither of us is ready to voice out loud. When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“Because some things are worth the risk,” he finishes.

I want to argue, to list all the reasons why getting emotionally involved with a Russian crime boss is the worst possible decision I could make. Instead, I kiss him back, pouring all my conflicted feelings into the connection between us.

We undress each other slowly this time, taking time to explore and appreciate what we’re sharing. His hands map my body with reverent care, and I trace the scars on his skin with gentle fingers, each mark telling a story of survival and resilience.

When he moves over me, I look into his eyes and see everything I’m feeling reflected there. Desire, yes, but also tenderness and something deeper that scares me more than federal agents or rival criminals ever could.

“I’m falling in love with you,” I whisper against his ear as he joins us together.

He stills for a moment, and I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. Then he presses his forehead against mine and speaks in a voice rough with emotion.

“I’m already there.”

The admission breaks something open in my chest, and I hold him closer as we move together with gentle urgency. This isn’t just physical connection but the recognition of something profound and terrifying and absolutely irreversible.

Afterward, we lie tangled in the cheap motel sheets, and I try to process what we’ve just acknowledged. I’m in love with a man whose hands are stained with blood, whose notebook contains enough criminal evidence to destroy lives and considers killing a necessary business practice.

The woman I used to be would be horrified. The woman I’m becoming accepts it as the price of survival in a world I never chose to enter. “What happens now?” I ask, my head pillowed on his chest.

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