Chapter 12: Mafia Prince’s Secret Baby: Chapter 11

With Katya and the kids safely inside, I turn my attention to the blood-soaked nightmare waiting for me. Whoever did this wanted to send a message, and they made damn sure I heard it loud and clear. My jaw tightens as I pull out my phone, hitting speed dial. Aleks answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” His voice is clipped, already sharp with alertness.

“My apartment’s been hit. Get the men and get here. Now.”

A pause, followed by the sound of movement on his end. Aleks doesn’t waste time, doesn’t ask unnecessary questions—that’s one of the reasons I enjoy working with him.

“What happened?” he asks finally, his tone hard.

“Someone left me a message,” I snap, pacing the hallway. My gaze flicks toward the closed apartment door, and for a second, I wonder if Katya’s listening in. Knowing her, she’s probably pressed against the door, catching every word. Not that it matters. The second she gets a chance, she’ll run to her brothers. Vasiliy and Nikolai already hate my guts—this will just give them fresh ammunition to unload on me.

“What kind of message?” Aleks presses.

“I don’t know yet.” My voice drops into a growl. “But it’s bloody. Deliberate. And whoever did it has balls.”

Aleks grunts, frustration leaking through the line. “I’m on my way.”

I hang up without replying, my mind spiraling through the possibilities. Whoever’s bold enough to come at me like this either doesn’t know who they’re dealing with—or worse, they do.

But I don’t go back inside. Not yet. Katya’s already angry enough and dragging her into this isn’t an option. Instead, I keep pacing, clenching and unclenching my fists. Sofiya’s giggles float faintly through the door, followed by Damien’s laughter. The sound twists something sharp in my chest. They’re depending on me to keep them safe, and I can’t afford to mess this up.

The elevator dings, and I’m on autopilot. My gun’s already in hand, aimed steady at the door as it slides open.

Aleks steps out, flanked by Konstantin and three more of my men. His gaze drops to the mess on the floor, and he swears under his breath.

“Fuck.” Aleks shakes his head. “They weren’t kidding.”

“I haven’t touched anything,” I say, motioning toward the boxes. “Konstantin, document everything. I want every detail recorded. No screw-ups.”

Konstantin nods, pulling gloves and a camera from his bag. He tosses me a pair of gloves, and I snap them on, already bracing myself. Aleks and I exchange a grim look before kneeling beside the first box.

“Ready?” I ask.

Aleks nods. “On three.”

“One… two…”

On three, we lift the lid.

The stench hits first, sharp and metallic, making my stomach lurch. Blood pools at the bottom of the box, thick and dark. On top of it all is a mangled mass of flesh and fur.

“Is that…” I squint, bile rising in my throat. “A rat?”

Aleks leans closer, his expression hard. “Big fucking dead rat,” he mutters.

He pokes at the remains, revealing shards of glass scattered through the bloody mess. My stomach churns, but I lock it down.

“Shards of glass,” I say, my voice grim. “This isn’t random.”

“Check the next box,” Konstantin calls from a few feet away, his camera trained on us.

Aleks moves to the second box, lifts the lid—and freezes. His entire body goes still, but the fury simmering just beneath the surface is unmistakable.

“What the fuck is it?” I ask, stepping closer.

Aleks doesn’t answer. He reaches inside and pulls out something dark, matted with blood. My stomach drops when I see the torn, familiar leather.

A collar.

“Is that⁠—”

“My dog,” Aleks grits out, his voice razor-sharp, his knuckles white around the bloodied leather. “What’s left of her.”

The air shifts, heavy with unspoken rage. I force myself to look into the box—the heap of blood is unrecognizable, shredded fur and torn flesh. But the collar? There’s no mistaking it.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shaking my head. This isn’t just a warning—it’s personal.

Aleks steps back, his fists clenched, his breathing ragged.

“She was a gift,” he says, his voice breaking with barely contained fury. “They killed her like she was nothing. Like she didn’t matter.”

And that’s when Konstantin decides to open his mouth. “Well, at least they didn’t leave the whole dog. That would’ve been a bigger mess to clean⁠—”

Aleks snaps.

In the blink of an eye, he’s got Konstantin by the collar, slamming him into the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.

“How dare you,” Aleks snarls, his voice low and venomous. “That dog meant more to me than your worthless ass ever will.”

Konstantin sputters something, but Aleks doesn’t let him finish. His fist flies, connecting with Konstantin’s jaw, followed by another punch. And another.

“Aleks!” I bark, my voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!”

His punches slow, but the rage burning in his eyes doesn’t fade. With one final shove, he lets Konstantin drop to the floor, a bloodied mess.

“She’s dead,” Aleks spits, his chest heaving. “She’s dead, you asshole.”

Konstantin mumbles something that might’ve been an apology, but I’m already signaling for one of the men to drag him out of the way. Once the hallway clears, I turn back to Aleks, my voice low and firm.

“Get yourself together.”

Aleks exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. The tension in his shoulders eases, but the fire in his eyes is still there, burning low and dangerous.

“Do you know who did this?” I ask.

Aleks’s jaw tightens. “If it was just you, I’d have a list a mile long. But both of us? That narrows it down.”

“You’re thinking of someone.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but the murderous glint in his eyes is all the confirmation I need.

“If it’s who I think it is…” Aleks’s voice drops into a growl. “They just declared war. And I’m not holding back.”

Neither am I.

“Give me names,” I demand. “Katya, Sofiya, and Damien—they’re under my protection. I need to know who we’re dealing with.”

Aleks meets my gaze, his expression dark. Finally, he says what I already feared.

“We’re having problems with the Colombians.”

“Shit,” I whisper, the weight of the situation crashing down on me. My eyes scan the bloody mess one last time. “What the hell happened?”

Aleks hesitates, his jaw clenching tight. “It’s about a shipment.”

And just like that, I know this is far from over.

My patience is a lit fuse, sparking closer to detonation with every second Aleks keeps me in the dark. I step forward, my shoe squelching in the blood pooling around us. “We don’t have time for your cryptic bullshit, brother. Spit it out.”

Aleks locks eyes with me, his jaw tightening. “Need I remind you that you were supposed to come back to New York when I did?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snap, my temper flaring. “Are you saying this clusterfuck is my fault?”

“I’m saying,” he fires back, voice sharp and biting, “that if you’d been where you were supposed to be, you would’ve handled the shipment yourself.”

The implication lands like a punch, and I don’t bother dodging. I step closer, my blood heating. “What the hell happened with it?”

“Mikhail lost it.” Aleks’s words clipped and razor-sharp. “There was a mix-up with the containers. When our men showed up to collect, the cargo was gone.”

“Gone?” I echo, my voice low, vibrating with anger. “How the fuck does a shipment just disappear?”

Aleks snaps his fingers. “Just like that. Poof. Gone. Vanished.”

The rage in my chest explodes, curling my fists tight. I have to fight the urge to put my hand through the nearest wall—or worse, Aleks’s face. This isn’t just a screw-up; it’s a disaster. And Mikhail? Of course, it’s him. That walking liability has been nothing but a headache since the start. He’s too reckless, too green, and now his incompetence is dragging us into the fire.

“Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter, my voice dark and simmering. “And now? What’s the fallout from this brilliant move?”

Aleks runs a hand over his buzzcut, tension etched into every line of his face. “Father’s called a meeting with Timur. Everyone’s expected to show.”

A curse rumbles out of me. That’s never a good sign.

Timur’s been in bed with the Sokolov family for over twenty years, but he’s not a man you trust further than you can throw him. A survivor. A shark. The kind of guy who’d sell his own mother for the right price. If the Colombians start pressing—and they will—Timur won’t hesitate to point the finger in our direction to save his own neck.

“If Timur thinks he’s getting out of this clean, he’s a goddamn idiot,” I say, my voice hard as steel. “He knows we’ve got just as much dirt on him as he does on us. But that’s not going to matter if the Colombians start taking scalps. He’ll throw us under the bus without blinking.”

Aleks nods grimly, his jaw ticking. The fragile balance between our families is already hanging by a thread. This mess? It’s a chainsaw, ready to slice it clean through.

I glance at the bloodied boxes one last time, the sight making my stomach twist with disgust. “Have someone clean this shit up,” I say, my voice tight with command. “And get ready to move. Be ready in half an hour.”

Aleks frowns. “Ready for what?”

“What do you think?” I throw over my shoulder as I head toward the apartment door. “I’ve got another mess to deal with. I need to make sure Katya doesn’t implode while I pack her and the kids up.”

Aleks mutters something low and probably profane, and for once, I don’t blame him. He knows the hell I’m about to walk into. Getting Katya to New York in the first place was like dragging a feral cat across a river. Convincing her to move into my parents’ estate—where my mother’s hawk-eyed scrutiny will follow her every step—is about to be a full-on war.

But there’s no alternative. Sofiya and Damien are my kids. My responsibility. Mine to protect. Katya can yell, scream, and throw every fiery glare she wants, but she’s not running to her brothers for backup. If she wants to stay with Sofiya, she’ll do it under my roof. If not, she’s welcome to leave. Alone.

That resolve hardens as I shove open the door.

Katya and Damien’s babysitter are waiting for me in the living room, Katya’s arms are crossed and her green eyes sparking with defiance. She’s already bracing for a fight.

“Don’t even think about unpacking,” I tell her, my voice firm and final. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”