Page 26 of The Mafia King's Baby

I can’t let that happen. Not to her. Not because of me.

I pack quickly and efficiently, taking only essential equipment and leaving the safe house prepared for immediate abandonment if this operation goes wrong. The drive back to Lake Tahoe will take two hours, and every mile will increase the risk I’m walking into a trap designed to use Celia as bait, but staying away guarantees she faces whatever Lang has planned without any protection or support.

The Nevada desert highway stretches ahead of me in the darkness, empty and straight under stars that provide no illumination for the moral complexities of choosing between tactical wisdom and personal loyalty. I push the rental car harder than advisable, trading operational security for speed asI race against the possibility that Lang has already escalated his approach beyond polite inquiries and federal credentials.

Every instinct developed over decades in this business warns me that returning to Lake Tahoe represents exactly the kind of emotional compromise that gets people killed.

But now, a different kind of certainty drives me forward. Celia made me feel human again by reminding me of parts of myself I’d thought were permanently buried under layers of violence and necessity. If protecting her costs me tactical advantages or a strategic position, if helping her requires risking the operational security I’ve maintained for eight months, those are prices I’m willing to pay.

I drive quickly, but I don’t let myself lose control and draw attention to my car. Just a little over the speed limit. Normal, like anyone else would drive at night.

As Lake Tahoe comes into view through the windshield, I let out a little sigh of relief. I feel more comfortable here. It’s relaxed, exceedingly civilian, and usually not home to any danger whatsoever.

Until now.

I park away from the house again, setting out on foot. Light pours from in Celia’s kitchen window, which means she’s still awake. Whether that’s because of normal evening routine or anxiety about Lang’s earlier visit remains to be determined.

The house appears peaceful from the outside, with no immediate signs of distress or forced entry, but appearances can be deceiving when dealing with someone like Marcus Lang, who’s skilled at applying pressure in ways that don’t leave obvious evidence. His patience for conventional investigation has limits,and those limits tend to involve escalation that puts civilians at serious risk.

I need to get inside and assess the situation to determine whether Celia is safe or if Lang’s contact has already evolved into something more threatening. The back door I used a week ago remains my best option for undetected entry, assuming no one else has the same idea about accessing her property through less visible approaches.

The mission isn’t just about protecting evidence anymore, and it isn’t about maintaining operational security against federal investigation. It’s about making sure the woman who reminded me what it felt like to be human survives the consequences of that reminder, no matter what those consequences cost me personally or professionally.

11

Celia

Mrs. Patterson’s key turns in the front door just as I’m putting away the book I’ve been pretending to read for the past hour. Sariah immediately abandons her afternoon nap to greet her returning human with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been tragically neglected despite receiving constant attention and treats all day. Perhaps she’s still rattled by that agent’s visit too.

“Celia, dear, we’re back,” Mrs. Patterson calls as she and her daughter Janine enter the living room. She’s moving more carefully than usual but looks remarkably well for someone who just had a procedure.

“How did everything go?” I stand to help with her purse and light jacket, grateful for the distraction from my own anxious thoughts.

“Perfectly routine, thank goodness. The doctor says I’m healing better than expected.” She settles into her favorite recliner with visible relief. “I hope Sariah wasn’t too much trouble.”

“She was an angel. We had a lovely day together.” I gesture toward the kitchen where the scent of baking still lingers in the air. “I made peanut butter cookies. I hope that’s all right.”

“You made cookies?” Janine looks up from where she’s been scratching behind Sariah’s ears. “Mom, you didn’t tell me your dog-sitter came with baking services.”

“Celia is a treasure,” Mrs. Patterson says with genuine warmth. “Always going above and beyond what anyone could reasonably expect.”

I deflect their gratitude, though the simple kindness of their appreciation makes my throat tighten unexpectedly. After Agent Lang’s visit this morning, being around people who view me as someone trustworthy rather than a potential criminal feels like emotional shelter from a storm I don’t fully understand.

“I should head home and let you rest.” I gather my book and purse, eager to return to familiar surroundings where I can process the day’s events without having to maintain a cheerful facade.

“Wait, let me pay you for today.” Mrs. Patterson reaches for her purse, but I wave her off.

“Absolutely not. You just had surgery, and I enjoyed spending time with Sariah. Consider it a favor between neighbors.”

“At least take some cookies home with you.” She starts to rise from the chair, but Janine gently presses her back down.

“I’ll get them, Mom. You need to rest.” Janine disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate wrapped in foil. “Thank you so much for helping today. It means everything to know Sariah wasn’t alone, and Mom has a caring neighbor.”

I accept the cookies and make my way toward the door, but Mrs. Patterson’s voice stops me before I can escape. “Celia, dear, are you feeling all right? You seem a bit rattled today.”

The observation startles me, though it shouldn’t. Mrs. Patterson taught elementary school for thirty years and raised four children. She’s developed an eye for recognizing when people are struggling to maintain composure, especially people who pride themselves on appearing capable and unflappable.

“Just tired,” I manage with what I hope passes for a reassuring smile. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

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