Page 9 of The Mafia King's Baby

We continue hiking, and I start oversharing in a way I never have before. When she asks about my family, I tell her about growing up with a younger brother who thought every rule was a suggestion and every dare was a challenge. I don’t mention that Dmitri died six years ago, or how, or why his death changed everything about my life.

“He sounds fun,” she says. “I was always the responsible one growing up. My mom says I came out of the womb with a day planner and a five-year plan.”

“And now?”

She laughs, but there’s something remorseful in it. “Now I’m unemployed and renting out my spare bedroom to strangers. So much for five-year plans.”

“What did you do before?”

“Marketing for a consulting firm. Five years of creating campaigns to convince people they needed services they’d never heard of.” She picks up a fallen pinecone and turns it over in her hands. “I was good at it, but I never loved it. Maybe getting laid off was the universe telling me to find something that actually matters.”

“Like hosting?”

“Like connecting with people. Like this.” She gestures at the trail, the trees, and the ridiculous dog now trying to carry three sticks at once. “When’s the last time you took a morning to walk in the woods without checking your phone every five minutes?”

I pull my phone from my pocket, realize I haven’t looked at it once since we started walking, and slide it back without checking messages. “Point taken.”

“See? The mountains are already working their magic on you.”

We walk for nearly two hours, conversation flowing as easily as if we’ve known each other for years rather than twelve hours. She tells me about her complicated relationship with her mother, who calls twice a week to offer career advice that usually boils down to “move back home and find a nice accountant to marry.” I share carefully edited stories about traveling for work, and cities and cultures that fascinate her.

“Prague sounds incredible,” she says when I describe the astronomical clock in Old Town Square. “I’ve always wantedto see Europe, but it seemed so expensive and complicated to plan.”

“It’s not as difficult as people think. The key is knowing which tourist traps to avoid and which hidden places are worth finding.”

She gives a wistful smile. “Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to book a solo trip.”

“You should. Travel changes how you see everything, including yourself.”

She stops walking and looks at me directly. “You talk like someone who’s seen a lot of the world.”

I meet her gaze, struck again by how openly she looks at people, without the calculating assessment I’m used to. “Business requires travel.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She tilts her head, studying my face. “You talk like someone who pays attention to places, not just passes through them.”

The observation is more perceptive than I expected, and I respond with more honesty than Aleks Sokolov should possess. “I learned early that if you’re going to be somewhere, you might as well understand it. Every place has its own logic, and its own style. You have to learn the pattern before you can truly enjoy it.”

“That’s a very philosophical approach to business travel.”

Before I can respond, Sariah returns with her collection of sticks and drops them at my feet like an offering to forest gods.

“I think she’s decided you’re part of her pack now,” Celia says, laughing as Sariah looks expectantly between us. “She only shares her best sticks with family.”

I pick up one of the damp, chewed sticks from the trail and crouch to toss it down the path. Sariah explodes after it like a missile with ears, tail wagging so hard it makes her whole body sway. I catch Celia watching me, something soft flickering behind her smile. We don’t say anything else for a moment and just listen to the wind moving through the trees along with the distant rustle of leaves stirred by our relentless little companion.

We linger a while longer before heading back down the trail, the kind of quiet settling between us that doesn’t need filling. Celia hums to herself, and Sariah trots between us like she’s herding two strays who finally figured out how to walk side by side. By the time we return to the house, the sky has darkened with a promise of more rain, and I’m strangely reluctant to step away from the simple rhythm of their world.

That evening,I lie in bed with my laptop, checking encrypted messages from Leonid and monitoring news feeds for any sign of Lang’s current activities. The storm has intensified again, drumming rain against the windows like bullets and wind howling through the trees outside with enough force to make the house creak and settle.

I’m reading an encrypted update about federal surveillance activities in Northern California when the lights flicker twice, then die completely. The laptop screen provides the only illumination in the suddenly dark room. Every electrical device in the house goes silent at once. It’s eerie with no hum ofappliances, no digital clock displays, and nothing but the storm’s assault on the building.

My hand moves instinctively toward the weapon I keep within easy reach. In my world, power failures usually signal trouble, the kind of tactical preparation that precedes raids or executions, but this isn’t Moscow or Sacramento. This is Celia’s suburban neighborhood, where storms knock out power lines and people wait patiently for utility crews to restore electricity.

I close the laptop to preserve battery and sit in complete darkness, listening to the storm rage outside. The house feels different without electric lighting, more isolated but somehow more intimate, like being inside a cave while the world rages beyond the entrance.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.

“Aleks?” Celia’s voice carries clearly despite the storm noise. “Are you okay in there?”

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