Page 11 of Mafia Pregnancy

“Everyone.”

Andrei nods and makes notes on his phone. He’s too professional to ask why I’m being paranoid about the domestic staff, but I can see the question in his expression. In eight years of working together, he’s never known me to doubt the people who clean my house and prepare my meals.

For these past eight years, I didn’t have Danielle moving through my hallways with secrets in her eyes and recognition she thinks she’s hiding.

“There’s one more thing.” Andrei pulls out a final photograph, this one taken from a much closer distance. “We intercepted this yesterday.”

The image shows Luca himself, older than I remember but still carrying himself with the arrogance that made him both dangerous and useful when we were partners. He’s sitting at an outdoor café in Little Italy, apparently reading a newspaper, but his positioning gives him clear sightlines to the street where my driver picks up my dry cleaning every Wednesday.

“He wants me to know he’s here.” I study Luca’s face, noting the expensive suit and the way he’s chosen a table that puts his back to a wall. “This isn’t about business. It’s personal.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

The smart play would be to eliminate the threat before it can fully materialize. One phone call to the right people, and Luca would disappear from San Diego as quietly as he arrived. But that kind of solution brings its own problems, creates its own enemies, and I’ve worked too hard building legitimate businesses to risk them on a war with ghosts from my past.

“Nothing yet. Let him think he has the advantage.” I hand the photograph back to Andrei. “I do want to know every move he makes, every person he talks to, and every place he goes though. If he’s planning something, I want to see it coming.”

After Andrei leaves, I try to focus on the business of running a criminal empire, but concentration proves to be impossible. Every few minutes, I find myself opening the security feed from the guest wing, searching for glimpses of Danielle as she moves through her assigned tasks. She works the same way I observed yesterday and the day before, but there’s something different in her posture today. It looks like sleepless nights and worry.

Does she suspect I know who she is? Is she planning to quit before our charade becomes unsustainable?

The possibility fills me with something that feels dangerously close to panic. I approved her employment because I wanted to see her again, to satisfy my curiosity about what four years had done to the woman who occupied my thoughts far longer than any one-night encounter should. Now that she’s here, and I canwatch her move through my house like she belongs in it, I’m not ready for her to leave.

I close the security feed and force myself to review shipping contracts, but the numbers blur together on the screen. All I can think about is the way she looked at me when she said, “Mikhail,” along with the flash of hurt and anger that crossed her face before she blanked her expression.

She remembers everything about that night. Every touch, every whispered promise, and every moment when I let down my guard enough to believe that connection was real instead of just chemistry between strangers.

The memory pulls me back to that hotel room in the Gaslamp Quarter, the way she laughed when the wine opener wouldn’t cooperate, and how that laugh made something in my chest loosen for the first time in years.

I shouldn’t have gone to that party or let myself be drawn into conversation with a woman whose eyes held more warmth than I’d encountered in a decade of carefully orchestrated social interactions. She challenged me about the wine selection, teased me about my serious expression, and made me forget for a few hours that intimacy was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

The decision to use an alias wasn’t out of cruelty. It was protection, both for her and for me. Men in my position don’t have relationships. We have arrangements. We don’t bring civilians into our world because civilians don’t survive long once they understand what we really do for a living.

Walking away from her the next morning was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I wanted to stay, to see if what happened between us could become something more than just one perfectnight, but I left while she was sleeping, taking nothing but the memory of how she felt in my arms and the regret that would follow me for years.

Now she’s cleaning my house, pretending not to know me, and I’m pretending not to remember the way she tasted like wine and possibility.

The intercom on my desk chimes, and Mrs. Yranda’s voice fills the office. “Mr. Vetrov? I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to confirm the catering arrangements for tomorrow’s dinner meeting.”

“What about them?”

“The service staff you requested. Should I have them arrive at five or six?”

The dinner meeting. I’d forgotten about the quarterly review with my legitimate business partners, the carefully orchestrated performance where I play the role of successful entrepreneur instead of criminal overlord.

“Six will be fine. I want the house spotless for tomorrow. Reassign Danielle to my personal wing. She can handle the detailed work that our guests will notice.”

There’s a pause before Mrs. Yranda responds. “Of course, sir. I’ll let her know immediately.”

I end the call and lean back in my chair, acknowledging the real reason behind my decision. It has nothing to do with impressing business partners and everything to do with keeping Danielle close enough to watch, study, and figure out what game she’s playing.

Or maybe I just want an excuse to be near her again.

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking through the house with no particular destination in mind. The security updates can wait. The financial reports will still be there in an hour. Right now, I need to see her reaction when she learns about the reassignment.

I find her in the guest bedroom at the end of the south hallway, cleaning the windows with the same careful attention to detail she brings to every task so far. She doesn’t notice me at first, too absorbed in her task to sense my presence. She reaches for the corner of the window frame, stretching to clean a spot that’s barely visible, and I’m transported back to the day before, when I caught her falling from that ladder.

For a moment, she was in my arms again, the years collapsed, and we were back in that hotel room where nothing existed except the connection between us. “Mrs. Yranda should have informed you about the reassignment.”

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