Page 60 of The Mafia King's Baby

“She will. I promise you that.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself imagine introducing Yefrem to my mother, watching her hold our child, and explaining how we met without mentioning murdered FBI agents and buried bodies. The fantasy feels both impossible and inevitable, though I realize she’s going to have to know at least part of the story about the corruption we’re taking down to explain why we have to change our identities and move far away.

Later that evening,after dinner and another round of analyzing financial records, I find Yefrem in the small office space with his laptop open to what looks like real estate websites. Property listings in foreign languages fill the screen,with photos of houses that look nothing like the functional compounds we’ve been living in. “What are you looking at?” I settle into the chair beside him.

“Possible relocation areas for when this is over.” He clicks through several listings, each more beautiful than the last. “Places where we can start over, reinvent ourselves, and disappear into normal lives.”

The properties are stunning and offer a plethora of choices, including seaside villas, mountain retreats, and urban apartments with views of ancient cities. All of them are far from here, and far from the corruption and violence that’s defined our relationship so far.

“You’ve been researching this for a while.” I study the detailed notes he’s made about each location.

“I want to be ready with options when the time comes.” He opens a new tab with what looks like a comparison chart. “I’ve narrowed it down to two main possibilities—Montenegro or Morocco.”

The names feel exotic and distant, like something from a travel magazine rather than potential new homes. “Tell me about them.”

He leans back in his chair, his tone taking on the practical efficiency he uses when explaining tactical plans. “Montenegro is small, mountainous, and on the Adriatic Sea. It has no formal extradition treaty with the United States, and enforcement is inconsistent at best. The eastern European culture would feel familiar to me, and there’s already a community of wealthy expats and people looking to disappear. They aren’t part of theEU but wish to join, so it’s possible their position on enforcing extradition might change.”

I frown slightly. “That sounds lovely but also concerning. What about Morocco?” I think of the famous F1 racing scene I recall seeing a few times on TV, since Dad was a huge sports fan, following everything from F1 racing to curling.

“It’s in North Africa and has no extradition treaty, but it does have a completely different culture and geography. It’s easier to blend in among the chaos of cities like Marrakech or Casablanca, or we could disappear into a mountain village in the Atlas range.” He clicks to a listing that shows a traditional riad with intricate tilework and a central courtyard. “The country offers more diverse options for disappearing, and the bureaucracy is chaotic enough that tracking people is difficult.”

I study the photos of both locations, trying to imagine our life in either place. Montenegro looks like something from a fairy tale—dramatic coastlines, medieval towns, and mountain villages that seem untouched by time. Morocco offers a different kind of magic—bustling souks, desert landscapes, and architecture that’s been standing for centuries.

“What about the practical stuff? Language barriers, getting residency, that kind of thing?”

“Montenegro would be easier in some ways. English is more common, especially in the expat communities along the coast.”

“But?”

He half-shrugs. “ Morocco offers something Montenegro doesn’t—complete anonymity. We could disappear into the medina of Fez or Marrakech and never be found.”

I study the photos of winding alleyways and crowded markets. “That sounds claustrophobic.”

“Not the cities necessarily. Look at this.” He clicks on the listing showing the riad nestled in mountain foothills to make it the dominant tab on the screen. “We could have privacy and space but still blend into the local population when needed.”

“What about for the baby? Medical care and schools eventually?”

“Both countries have decent healthcare in the major cities. Morocco actually has some excellent private facilities, especially in Casablanca and Rabat.” He scrolls through more listings. “And international schools in both places, though Morocco has more options, or we can hire private tutors.”

I can’t hide how impressed I am. “You’ve really researched this thoroughly.”

He looks almost bashful for a moment. “I want us to have real choices, not just pick the first place that seems safe.”

I imagine raising our child in either location—a little girl or boy playing in a courtyard filled with orange trees, learning multiple languages, and growing up far from the violence that brought their parents together. The thought fills me with longing so intense it takes my breath away. “What about the culture shock? Morocco would be completely different from anything either of us has experienced.”

He nods. “True. Montenegro would feel more familiar to me with its similar climate to parts of Russia, Orthodox churches, and Slavic influences.” He pauses, considering. “But maybe different is good. Maybe we need to become completely new people.”

“I like that idea.” I lean closer to study the Moroccan listings. “Starting fresh and learning everything together.”

Yefrem nods again. “The Atlas Mountains could be perfect for raising a child. Clean air, beautiful scenery, and close-knit communities.”

“And far enough from major cities that we’d have privacy but not isolation.” That sounds appealing, reminding me of the quiet suburb where I lived in Lake Tahoe. The scenery is different, but the sense of belonging could be the same.

“Exactly. Plus, if we ever needed to disappear quickly, there are dozens of villages and valleys where we could blend in.” He lifts a hand. “Not that I anticipate that happening once we set our plan in motion, but I like have contingency plans.”

I nod my approval and trace the outline of a courtyard garden in the riad photo. “This one looks like something from a fairy tale.”

“Traditional architecture, modern amenities, and enough space for a family.” His voice carries a note of longing. “Our child could grow up playing in that courtyard, learning Arabic and French from the neighbors.”

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