Page 22 of The Mafia King's Baby

As Lake Tahoe comes into view through the windshield, I make a promise to myself and to the woman who shared her bed and her trust with a stranger. Whatever it takes, whatever risks I have to accept, I’ll make sure she survives this mistake intact.

The notebook can be replaced, and the network rebuilt, but Celia’s life is irreplaceable and protecting it has become more important to me. I drive toward her neighborhood with the grim determination of a man who understands that the next few hours will determine whether the best night I’ve had in years becomes the worst mistake of my life.

When I reach her neighborhood, I scan for surveillance vehicles and unfamiliar faces, looking for any sign that Lang’s people have already discovered what I’ve lost and where it might be found. The streets appear quiet and unremarkable, exactly as they should be in a residential neighborhood where the most exciting daily event is probably the mail delivery, but appearances can deceive, and in my business, paranoia is a survival skill rather than a character flaw.

I park three blocks away from Celia’s house and approach on foot, using gardens and neighboring properties to mask my movements while maintaining sight lines on her front door and windows. No suspicious vehicles parked nearby, and there are no men in suits pretending to read newspapers while watching her house. I see no obvious signs of surveillance or threat.

Still, that doesn’t mean they aren’t here. Lang’s team is professionals and capable of subtlety when the situation requires it. They could be watching from a distance, waiting for me to make exactly this kind of mistake.

As I move closer to Celia’s house, I catch sight of her through the kitchen window. She’s standing at the sink, washing dishes or preparing dinner, moving with the easy efficiency of someone comfortable in her own space. Alive and unharmed, and apparently unaware that her life has been in danger since the moment I left that notebook in her bedside drawer.

The sight of her safe and whole relieves some of the crushing weight in my chest, but it doesn’t eliminate the urgency of retrieving the evidence before Lang discovers where it is. I need to get inside, find the notebook, and disappear again without alerting her to the real reason for my return.

The back door I used to slip away this morning remains my best option for entry. If I can get inside while she’s distracted with dinner preparation, retrieve the notebook from the guest room, and leave again without being seen, she never has to know how close she came to becoming a target in a war she doesn’t understand.

I move through her backyard quietly, noting the placement of windows and potential escape routes in case this goes wrong. The kitchen light creates a warm glow that makes theapproaching evening seem peaceful and normal, the kind of domestic scene that exists in a world far removed from federal investigations and criminal enterprises.

Soon, I’ll either restore that normal routine by removing all traces of my dangerous presence from her life, or I’ll discover that it’s already too late to protect her from the consequences of my carelessness. Either way, the next few minutes will determine whether the woman who made me remember what it felt like to hope for something better than survival will pay the ultimate price for my failures.

9

Celia

Ispend the evening cleaning house to help clear my head. I vacuum the living room carpet where we shared wine by candlelight, trying not to think about how the space felt more alive with his presence. I dust the surfaces that caught flickering shadows while we talked about our families and losses, each motion deliberate but distracted. I fold the throw blanket we used during the storm, and memories of how Aleks pulled it around both of us when the fire burned low make my chest tighten with something I don’t want to name.

The physical activity should help me process the lingering confusion about his abrupt departure and the strange notebook he left behind. Instead, every task reminds me of his presence in my house, and the way he seemed to belong in spaces that had felt empty for so long.

I save the kitchen for last, loading dishes into the dishwasher while fragments of our conversation replay in my mind. I remember the way he listened when I talked about Dad,how his attention never faltered or felt performative like so many people’s sympathy. That makes me think of the grief I glimpsed when he mentioned his brother that spoke of genuine loss rather than casual sadness. Most troubling of all, I keep thinking about the careful way he answered questions about his work, responses that should have been straightforward but felt rehearsed.

The warm soapy water feels good on my hands as I scrub the wine glasses we used, but I can’t shake the image of those encrypted pages filled with numbers and names in multiple languages. What kind of real businessman keeps records like that?

I’m rinsing the last glass when a soft scraping sound comes from somewhere deeper in the house, like furniture being moved carefully across a floor. I freeze with my hands still in the sink, water dripping from the glass as I strain to identify the source.

The house settles sometimes, especially on cool nights when the wood contracts and expands. This sounds different though. It’s more purposeful. More human.

I turn off the water and listen intently, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears. I hear nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of wind moving through pine branches outside. Maybe I imagined it, or maybe it really was just the house adjusting to temperature changes the way old buildings do.

Suddenly, Dad’s warm voice pops up in my head. “Better to feel foolish for being cautious than sorry for ignoring warning signs.”

I dry my hands on the dish towel and move quietly through the living room, checking windows and door locks with thesystematic approach he taught me. I test the front door handle and confirm it’s secured before checking the living room windows are properly latched. Everything appears exactly as it should be until I reach the back of the house.

The back door stands ajar.

I stop in the hallway, staring at the gap between door and frame that definitely wasn’t there when I started cleaning. I double-checked it this morning, after my guest’s departure, along with every other entry point because living alone has made me cautious about security. The memory is clear and specific because I remember thinking about how he’d slipped out through this same door in the predawn darkness.

Someone has been in my house.

I grab my phone from the kitchen counter, thumb hovering over the emergency call button while I try to decide whether this constitutes a real crisis. There are no signs of forced entry, and nothing is obviously disturbed or stolen from what I can see. Maybe I didn’t secure the lock as thoroughly as I thought. Maybe the wind caught it somehow, though that doesn’t explain the scraping sound I heard earlier, or why the door would swing open rather than blow shut.

I move through the house room by room, looking for anything out of place or missing. The living room appears undisturbed, with the cushions still arranged the way I left them after folding the throw blanket. The kitchen looks exactly as it did when I finished cleaning, with no drawers pulled open or cabinets searched. The bathroom remains untouched. The towels are still hung neatly, and medicine cabinet is visually undisturbed.

The guest room appears normal at first glance. The bed sits made with fresh sheets, surfaces dusted clean and ready for the next visitor. The flowers I arranged on the dresser this morning still look fresh and properly positioned, but when I open the bedside table drawer, my heart stops.

The notebook is gone.

The mysterious journal filled with encrypted information and coded names, the evidence that Aleks wasn’t who he claimed to be, has disappeared completely. In its place sits the original guest notebook I provide for visitors, the one with blank pages and “Welcome to Lake Tahoe” embossed on the cover in gold lettering.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, trying to process what this means. Someone came into my house specifically to retrieve that notebook, someone who knew exactly where to find it and what they were looking for. Someone who had access to my house and understood the significance of what appeared to be random financial records.

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