Page 1 of Mafia Pregnancy

1

Danielle

“Don’t mess this up, Danielle.”

I whisper the words to myself as I grab my cleaning supplies from the backseat and stare up at the wrought-iron gates of the La Jolla estate. The Mediterranean architecture rises beyond the barrier like something from a world to which I’ve never belonged. It’s all stone and glass and perfectly manicured gardens that must cost a fortune to maintain.

Carmen’s text from last night burns in my memory:Owner still overseas. Easy money, D. You’ve got this.

I press the intercom button with a steady finger, though my heart hammers against my ribs. This job has to work. Leo’s preschool tuition sits unpaid on my kitchen counter, and the maid agency made it clear this was my last chance after too many scheduling conflicts and missed opportunities.

“Danielle Arden for the housekeeping position.”

The gates swing open without a response, and I drive through onto a circular drive lined with towering palm trees. The house sprawls before me, all cream stone and terracotta tiles, with windows that catch the morning sun like mirrors. I park near what looks like a service entrance and gather my supplies, forcing my shoulders back and my chin up.

Carmen meets me at the door before I can knock, her dark hair pulled back in the same practical ponytail she’s worn since we met at the agency three years ago. Relief floods through me at the sight of her familiar face.

“You made it.” She steps aside to let me in, lowering her voice as we move through a gleaming kitchen. “Leslie called ahead. Mr. Vetrov’s been traveling for months, so it’s just us and the groundskeeper most days.”

The kitchen alone is larger than my entire apartment, with granite countertops that make me yearn to bake cookies on them with Leo. Everything is pristine, and untouched, like a showroom waiting for life to happen inside it.

“What’s he like?” I ask, following Carmen down a hallway lined with original artwork.

“Quiet. Keeps to himself when he’s here. Pays well and doesn’t micromanage.” Carmen shrugs, but something in her expression shifts. “Just...don’t go into his office uninvited, and don’t ask questions about his business. He values privacy.”

The way she says it makes me pause, but I nod anyway. Privacy I can handle. Questions I don’t have time for. I just need steady work and a paycheck that covers Leo’s expenses.

Carmen leads me upstairs to a gallery that runs the length of the house, with windows stretching from the polished hardwoodfloors to the vaulted ceiling. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams, and I see smudges on the glass that haven’t been cleaned in weeks.

“Start here today,” Carmen says, handing me a step ladder. “The windows, then the baseboards. Take your time. This client wants quality over speed.”

She disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with my supplies and the sudden quiet that seems to press against my eardrums. I set up the ladder beneath the first window and climb up with my cleaning solution and microfiber cloths, losing myself in the rhythm of the work.

The ocean stretches endlessly beyond the glass, with deep blue meeting pale sky at a horizon line that seems impossibly far away. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to wake up to this view every morning, to have this kind of space and silence and beauty as a given instead of a glimpse stolen during working hours.

The step ladder wobbles beneath me as I reach for the corner of the window frame, and I grip the cloth tighter, stretching to clean a stubborn water spot. The metal shifts again, more pronounced this time, and I should climb down and reposition it, but I’m so close to finishing this section?—

The world tilts sideways as the ladder gives way beneath me.

I have a split second to think about the hardwood floor rushing up to meet me, the bruises I’ll have to explain to Leo, and losing this job before I’ve even finished my first day. Then strong hands catch my waist and pull me back against a solid chest, steadying me before I can fall.

My heart stops.

The hands that hold me are familiar in a way that makes my breath catch in my throat. Large and careful, with calluses that I remember tracing with my fingertips four years ago in a hotel room that smelled like jasmine and expensive wine. I know the warmth of this chest against my back and recognize the subtle cologne that mingles with his own scent.

I turn slowly, already knowing what I’ll find but praying I’m wrong.

Storm-colored eyes meet mine. They’re grey-blue like the ocean during a winter squall, with that same devastating intensity that haunted my dreams for months after he disappeared. His face is exactly as I remember it, angular and stoic, with lips that know exactly how to destroy a woman’s composure.

“Mikhail?” The name falls from my lips like betrayal made audible.

He doesn’t react to the name. Doesn’t even blink. He just steadies me on my feet and steps back, his expression as blank as if he’s looking at a complete stranger. “Careful.” His voice is the same low rumble that once whispered promises against my skin. Then he walks away, disappearing down the hallway as if I’m nothing more than a piece of furniture he’s just prevented from breaking.

I stand frozen in the gallery, my cleaning cloth still clutched in my hand, staring at the empty space where he stood. The man who gave me the most passionate night of my life, who vanished without a trace, leaving me with nothing but a fake name and a pregnancy I never told him about, was just here. I’m sure of it.

He just looked at me like I don’t exist.

Heat floods my cheeks from embarrassment, fury, and something else I refuse to name. Was I so forgettable that four years erased me completely from his memory? Was our connection so one-sided that while I spent months wondering what happened to him, he never thought of me at all?

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