Page 17 of The Mafia King's Baby

He stares at me like I’ve suggested we start a charity for orphaned puppies. “You want me to provide surveillance protection for a civilian you barely know because you had a one-night stand?”

“I want to make sure my poor judgment doesn’t get an innocent woman killed.”

He shakes his head. “Your poor judgment was sleeping with her in the first place. The smart play now is to disappear completely and hope no one connects her to you.”

“Leonid.” I keep my voice level but let enough authority creep in to remind him that despite our friendship, I’m still the one who makes final decisions. “I’m not asking for active protection or direct contact. Just periodic observation to make sure she’s safe. If Lang’s people show up asking questions, I want to know about it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, weighing the risks against my apparent determination to involve him in what he clearly considers emotional stupidity. Finally, he nods once. “Fine. I’ll have someone check on her periodically, but this is the last favor I do for your conscience, understood?”

“Understood.”

He gets into his car without another word, and I follow suit. As we pull out of the rest stop in opposite directions with the plan to meet up at the coordinates he’s going to email me through encrypted channels, I catch a glimpse of the mountains that hide Lake Tahoe from view. Somewhere beyond those peaks, Celia is probably waking up to find my inadequate note and the money I left behind.

I wonder if she’ll think of me as fondly as I’m already thinking of her, or if she’ll recognize the encounter for what it really was—a dangerous distraction that could have gotten us both killed.

The rational part of my mind hopes for the latter. The part that remembers the way she smiled in candlelight hopes for something else entirely, something I have no right to want and no ability to provide.

I drive toward the next phase of a survival strategy that’s kept me alive for eight months, trying not to think about sage green walls or the sound of genuine laughter over morning coffee. Trying not to think about what I might have found if I were a different man living a different life.

The notebook in my pocket feels heavier with each mile I put between myself and the woman who reminded me what it felt like to be human instead of just a collection of survival instincts and calculated risks.

By the time I reach the Nevada border, I’ve almost convinced myself that leaving was the right choice and protection from a distance is enough to satisfy whatever obligation I feel toward her.

Almost.

But not quite.

7

Celia

Iwake to pale morning light filtering through my bedroom curtains and the immediate awareness that I’m alone. The space beside me in bed is cold, the pillow still bearing the indent of Aleks’s head but no other trace of his presence. I sit up slowly, running my fingers through tangled hair and trying to process the hollow feeling in my chest.

The house feels different. Not just quiet in the normal way of early morning, but genuinely empty, like all the air has been sucked out of it. I pull on my robe and pad downstairs, half-expecting to find him in the kitchen making coffee with that careful attention to detail I noticed yesterday.

Instead, I find a note propped against the coffee maker in handwriting I don’t recognize.“Thank you for everything. Had to leave early for business. Will be in touch.—A.”

Beside the note sits a stack of cash. More cash than his room cost, and he already paid for it through the app. It’s also way more than any reasonable tip would justify. I count it twice, mystomach sinking with each bill. Each counting confirms it’s four hundred dollars, which is enough to cover nearly two weeks of groceries or a significant chunk of my mortgage payment.

It also feels like payment for services rendered in my bed rather than just as his host.

The practical part of my brain recognizes I need this money, that every dollar helps when I’m scrambling to make ends meet between job interviews and the occasional QwikRent booking. Yet my pride rebels against accepting what feels like compensation for sleeping with him.

I sit at my kitchen table with the cash in my hands, torn between throwing it back at him and tucking it away for emergencies. The note tells me nothing useful about where he went or whether I’ll actually hear from him again. “Will be in touch” could mean anything or nothing, the kind of vague promise people make when they want to avoid awkward goodbyes.

The coffee maker gurgles to life on its timer, and I remember I programmed it last night, expecting to share breakfast with him this morning. The assumption now seems laughably naïve. Of course he left early. What did I expect from a one-night encounter with a virtual stranger?

I pour coffee into a single mug, the routine feeling strange after yesterday’s easy conversation over shared breakfast. The kitchen seems too quiet without his voice asking thoughtful questions about my life, and too empty without his presence filling the space between refrigerator and counter.

Knock it off, Celia. You had a lovely evening with an attractive man who was always going to leave this morning.Nothing about that has changed except your own unrealistic expectations.

I fold the cash and slide it into the emergency envelope I keep in my kitchen drawer, the one labeled “Last Resort” in my own careful handwriting. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now, and four hundred dollars represents a significant buffer against financial disaster.

The house feels too quiet as I shower and dress, so I turn on music to fill the silence. Even with upbeat songs playing, I catch myself listening for footsteps on the stairs or the sound of someone moving around in the guest room.

By ten o’clock, I can’t stand the emptiness anymore. I grab a casserole dish from the freezer and walk across the street to Mrs. Patterson’s house, using meal preparation as an excuse to get out of my own head.

“Celia, dear.” Mrs. Patterson opens her front door with the enthusiasm of someone genuinely delighted by unexpected company. “What a lovely surprise.”

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