Page 7 of The Mafia King's Baby

Even if he does extend his stay, which is always a possibility, it would just mean more income and more experience as a host. This is just the beginning of what could be a successful venture,and a way to maintain my independence while I figure out my next career move. In a way, being let go was actually a blessing, because I had started to hate marketing as a career, and my old company specifically.

To be successful at this new venture, I don’t need to solve the mystery of every guest who books my room. I just need to provide good service and maintain appropriate boundaries.

The rain continues its steady rhythm against the window, and I let the sound wash over me like a lullaby. My first guest is settling in for the night, and everything feels manageable now that I’ve talked myself through my initial anxiety.

The storm outside sounds like it might intensify during the night, but we’re well-prepared for mountain weather in this house. I have flashlights and candles ready in case the power goes out, which happens occasionally during heavy storms in this area. At least Aleks chose a good night to stay indoors rather than trying to drive through mountain roads in this weather.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I finally drift toward sleep, the deadbolt on my bedroom door a small but reassuring barrier between my private space and the stranger who’s sharing my home tonight.

I dream of sage green walls and unfamiliar accents, of expensive clothes and intense dark eyes that seem to see more than they should.

In my dreams, Aleks moves through my house like he belongs there, examining family photos and opening drawers that aren’t meant for guests. Underwear drawers, specifically, and he’s pulling out little lace panties that were once reserved for Tripp.

4

Yefrem

Iwake to the sound of rain still pattering against the window, though lighter now than the steady downpour that lulled me to sleep, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then reality settles back into place along with the familiar weight of responsibility and danger that follows me everywhere.

It’s 7:23 a.m. according to my phone. It’s the first uninterrupted night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks, which says something about either my exhaustion or the surprising sense of safety I found in this quiet suburban house.

I shower in the small bathroom across the hall, grateful for the hot water and clean towels that smell like lavender fabric softener.

Back in the guest room, I dress carefully in yesterday’s clothes, which Celia probably noticed are expensive despite my attempts to appear unremarkable. I should have packed differently for this identity and chosen pieces that would blend better withthe middle-class suburban environment in which I’m hiding. I’ll have to get some new clothes.

Once I’m ready, I retrieve the notebook from the bedside drawer where I secured it last night. The pages inside contain encrypted transaction records documenting six years of Russian Mafia activities in California, along with detailed payment schedules to corrupt FBI agents, federal judges, and political figures whose cooperation kept our operations running smoothly.

I flip through the pages, double-checking that everything remains intact. The codes and numbers look innocuous enough to casual observation, but they represent millions in laundered money, bribes, and protection payments. Marcus Lang has been hunting this notebook since my brother’s death, knowing it contains evidence that would not only bring down my organization but expose the network of corruption that allowed us to operate with impunity for so long.

If Lang gets this notebook from me, I have no idea what kind of chaos will transpire in the fallout. He could use it to clean house within the FBI, eliminating the agents who’ve been taking our money while positioning himself as the hero who exposed the corruption. Or he could leverage the information for his own purposes, blackmailing the same officials we’ve been paying to ensure they serve his interests instead of ours. Judging from the way he’s been conducting himself, I think he’ll pursue the latter option. He’s anything but by the book.

Either scenario ends badly for me and everyone connected to my organization. I close the notebook and slip it back into my jacket pocket, then head downstairs to find Celia.

The smell of coffee and something baking guides me to the kitchen, where I find her standing at the counter with her backto me, hair pulled into a messy bun that reveals the graceful curve of her neck. She’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her look younger than she did last night, and more relaxed in her own space.

“Good morning.” I keep my voice neutral and professional, though something about the domestic scene makes me want to linger here longer than safety would recommend.

She turns with a smile that transforms her entire face, making me wonder what I missed last night in the dim hallway lighting. “Morning. I hope you slept well. Coffee’s ready, and I just pulled some blueberry muffins from the oven.”

The muffins sit cooling on a wire rack, golden and fragrant, and clearly homemade rather than store-bought. When was the last time someone baked for me? The gesture feels personal in a way that catches me unprepared. “You didn’t need to go to such trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I love baking, and it’s been a while since I had an excuse to make more than single portions. Microwave muffins just aren’t as good.” She pours coffee into a ceramic mug and hands it to me, brushing her fingers against mine briefly in the exchange. “How do you take it?”

“Black is perfect.” The coffee is excellent, rich and smooth without the bitter edge I’ve grown accustomed to at truck stops and diners. “This is very good.”

“Thanks. I’m a bit of a coffee snob, I’m afraid. It’s one of my few remaining indulgences.”

The casual reference to financial constraints reminds me she’s recently unemployed, turning her spare bedroom into income out of necessity rather than choice. The thought bothers memore than it should. She seems like the kind of person who deserves stability and security, not the uncertainty that comes with depending on strangers for rent money.

We settle at her small kitchen table with coffee and warm muffins. Steam rises from both our cups in the cool morning air, and she breaks her muffin into small pieces, eating each bite carefully. Her movements have a deliberate quality that suggests someone who’s learned to savor simple pleasures.

“So, what brings you to Lake Tahoe?” She glances up from her plate, brown eyes curious but not intrusive.

“My business meetings in Reno ran later than expected. I needed somewhere quiet to regroup before continuing to San Francisco.”

“What kind of business?” She takes a sip of coffee, waiting patiently for my answer.

“International goods. Mostly trade between Eastern Europe and the West Coast.” The half-truth flows easily enough.

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