Chapter 15: Mafia Prince’s Secret Baby: Chapter 14

A knock at the door startles me, my heart leaping into my throat. My hand presses instinctively to my chest as I exhale sharply, trying to calm my racing pulse.

How am I still jumping at every sound in this house? You’d think I’d be used to it by now—the constant threat of something going wrong, the ever-present tension simmering just beneath the surface. But no one should ever get used to living like this.

“Come in,” I call, forcing my voice to remain steady.

The door opens, revealing Igor’s mother, Irina. She steps inside with the kind of graceful confidence that only someone who has spent their entire life navigating power and danger can exude. She’s tall and regal, her golden hair swept back, and on her wrist, she wears a bracelet of black gold with an engraved S. It must be a Sokolov family signature, though on her, it looks less like a mark of loyalty and more like a polished weapon.

Irina is the last person I expected to see. For a moment, I’m unsure whether I should be flattered by the visit or concerned about what she wants. Regardless, I keep my face neutral. Igor already knows I want out of here as soon as Sofiya’s treatment is done, and I’m not looking to charm anyone into liking me.

She studies me for a moment, waiting. “May I come in?”

I gesture toward the room. “Please.”

If she senses my reluctance, she doesn’t show it. She walks in with a hypnotic grace, closing the door softly behind her.

“Since tonight’s dinner came at such short notice, I took the liberty of helping you with your wardrobe,” she says smoothly, holding up two dresses. “You’re about the same size as Katarina. She left most of her clothes behind when she married Nikolai.”

At the mention of her daughter, something flickers in her expression—sadness, perhaps, though it’s fleeting. It must be hard, I imagine, being the only woman in this household of domineering men.

“Thank you,” I reply, managing a polite smile. She sets the dresses on the bed, smoothing them out with practiced ease. Before I have time to process either of them, she points to the silver one.

“It’s a bit short,” she says with a small smile, “but it will look stunning on you. If Igor’s behavior is any indication, you’ll have him on his knees with it.”

I can’t help the sharp laugh that escapes me.

“Thanks, I think,” I manage, unsure whether to feel flattered or irritated. “But I’m not exactly keen on having his attention.”

Her expression softens, the teasing slipping away. “I know it might not seem like it,” she says with a sigh, “but deep down, Igor is a good man.”

The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “That is such a mom thing to say,” I tell her, shaking my head. “But for Sofiya’s sake, I hope you’re right. If he insists on being in her life, I want to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.”

The mention of Sofiya transforms her completely. Her face lights up, her expression softening into something genuine. “I always wanted a granddaughter,” she says warmly. “The circumstances aren’t ideal, but I’m so glad Sofiya’s here. And you, too.”

Her sincerity throws me off. I don’t know what to make of it, so I simply mutter, “Thanks,” under my breath.

Irina smiles, nodding toward the silver dress. “Do you need help with that?”

“No, thank you. I’ll manage,” I say quickly, eager to be left alone.

She nods, graceful as ever, and leaves the room. The moment the door clicks shut, I let out a slow breath and sink onto the bed.

Irina seems too good to be a part of this family. The rest of them deserve to be torn apart, piece by piece.

Especially Igor.

I shake my head and stand, lifting the dress she brought. It’s beautiful, I’ll give her that, but to me, it’s more than just a dress—it’s armor. A weapon I’ll wield until I figure out how to get Sofiya and me out of this place for good.

When I descend the stairs, the chatter from the living room grows louder. My lips curl into a flat smile, my mask firmly in place. The moment I step into view, the room goes silent, all eyes turning toward me.

Igor’s gaze is the heaviest of all. His eyes slide over me, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch of bare skin exposed by the dress. The hem brushes my thighs as I walk, the soft swish of fabric making my stomach churn. When our gazes meet, I hold his stare, pouring as much venom as I can muster into my expression.

I want to look away. I should look away. But I don’t. Because the unspoken threat between us is clear: behave, or else.

“Madre mía… Qué chica más guapa!”

The voice draws my attention, and my eyes snap to a tall, broad-shouldered man with tanned skin and striking hazel eyes. He stands next to a blond, muscular companion, both of them radiating danger beneath their tailored suits.

“Stand down, Montoya,” Igor says, his forced smile as sharp as a blade. “She’s mine.”

Normally, his possessiveness would make my blood boil, but the way his father seems to approve makes my stomach turn. I think I’m starting to understand why Irina stays silent so often.

Igor crosses the room and offers me his arm. I hesitate but take it. For now, I’ll play along.

“Timur, Montoya,” Igor begins, his voice smooth but authoritative, “allow me to introduce my girlfriend, Katya Volkova.” He emphasizes girlfriend and my last name, making it clear to everyone in the room exactly where I stand.

Montoya steps forward, taking my hand and pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “Pleased to meet you, señorita,” he drawls, flashing a charming grin. A small scar beneath his eye only adds to his bad-boy aura. “Is she single?”

“Just as I said,” Igor growls, his tone deadly, “she’s mine.”

Timur glares at Montoya, his voice sharp. “Back the fuck off, Montoya. We’re here to build alliances, not make enemies.”

Igor, sensing the tension, pivots. “You haven’t met our youngest brother yet,” he says, gesturing toward a tall man lingering by the kitchen doorway.

Mikhail.

I’ve heard enough about him to know exactly who he is: the one who lost the shipment.

But right now, he’s too busy ogling a young maid to care about his introduction. The way his gaze lingers on her is almost… normal. Unexpectedly so.

“Mikhail!” his father barks, snapping his fingers.

Reluctantly, Mikhail tears his gaze away from the girl and joins us, his lips pulling into a lazy smile.

“This is Mikhail,” Igor says pointedly, his tone carrying a warning I don’t fully understand.

“Nice to meet you,” I offer.

Mikhail’s smile widens as he takes my hand and presses a lingering kiss to my knuckles. His eyes, identical to his father’s, gleam with mischief.

“If you ever get bored of my brother,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my skin, “my room is two doors down from yours.”

My stomach twists, and I have to force myself to keep the polite smile on my face. This family is going to be the death of me.

Igor steps forward, his expression darkening as he shoves his brother back. “If you know what’s good for you, Mikhail, you’ll watch your mouth.”

Mikhail grins lazily, clearly unbothered, but his father’s glare cuts through the tension like a blade. For a moment, I think Dimitri will say something, but Aleks steps in smoothly, positioning himself between Igor and Mikhail.

“Should we take our seats?” Aleks suggests, his tone calm, his posture casual. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

I don’t miss how Aleks is the one who keeps stepping in to defuse the tension. He’s like a buffer, absorbing the heat before things boil over. Though he’s not the eldest, it’s obvious he has the steadiest head in the room. The perfect lieutenant for Igor, once the mantel of pakhan is inevitably passed down.

I follow their lead, reluctantly taking my place beside Igor. Aleks settles on my other side, giving me a reassuring smile as he does. I glance at him, grateful for the unspoken solidarity. Right after Katarina, he’s easily my favorite Sokolov. Well, him and Damien, who’s too cute to count as a Sokolov in the same way the others do.

My eyes drift across the room, taking in the men wearing their tailored suits and cold stares. If this were a party or a high-end restaurant, their appearances would have turned heads. Sharp, predatory, dangerous—there’s something mesmerizing about them. But I know better. They’re not just handsome men in suits. They’re beasts. Apex predators dressed up as civilized humans.

The tension in the air is suffocating, thick with unspoken threats and sharp-edged power plays. These are men who never back down. Men who thrive on bloodshed and chaos. And I’m caught in the middle of them, trying not to let my dread show.

Dimitri Sokolov takes his seat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his glare as sharp as ever. Across from us, Montoya and Timur claim their spots, both radiating barely concealed arrogance.

Once everyone is seated, the room dips into a brief, uneasy silence.

Then Montoya clears his throat, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “So,” he says, his voice smooth and laced with mockery. “Shall we talk about how you lost twenty-million-dollars of cargo, or shall we eat dinner first?”

Montoya’s words hang in the air, heavy with accusation. My stomach tightens, but I force my expression to remain neutral, my hands folded in my lap as I glance between the men.

Igor’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond immediately. His father’s glare sharpens, and Aleks sits back slightly, observing, his calm demeanor betraying nothing.

Timur’s mouth curls into a thin smile. “Always so direct, Montoya,” he says smoothly, though there’s an edge to his tone. “But maybe you should learn a little patience. Dinner first. Business after.”

Montoya’s gaze flicks to Timur, and for a moment, the tension between them feels almost physical. Then, with a shrug, he leans back in his chair, his lips quirking into a grin. “Fine,” he says. “Dinner first.”

I glance at Igor out of the corner of my eye. His expression is hard, his icy gaze fixed on Montoya. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and I can feel the storm brewing inside him. But he doesn’t lash out. Not yet.

The food is brought out in silence, plates of expertly prepared dishes set in front of us by the household staff. The smells are rich and enticing, but my appetite is nonexistent. I feel like I’m walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

Igor picks up his knife and fork. He doesn’t look at me, but his presence beside me is impossible to ignore. I focus on my plate, pushing food around without taking more than a few bites.

Across the table, Montoya and Timur exchange quiet words, their low voices blending with the faint clinking of silverware. Aleks, as usual, remains calm and observant, while Mikhail devours his food with the enthusiasm of someone who can’t read the room.

“Eat,” Igor mutters under his breath, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I glance at him. His gaze flicks to mine for a brief second—just long enough to remind me of the unspoken rules I agreed to by sitting at this table. Play the role. Behave. Don’t make a scene.

I force myself to take a bite, chewing mechanically as my thoughts race.

As the plates are cleared, Dimitri finally speaks, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Now that dinner’s out of the way, let’s address the elephant in the room.”

His gaze lands on Igor, sharp and commanding. “What happened to the shipment?”

Igor leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “It was mishandled,” he says bluntly. “Mikhail was overseeing it.”

At the mention of his name, Mikhail straightens slightly, his grin faltering for the first time.

“Mishandled,” Dimitri repeats, his voice laced with disdain. “That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s the only way to put it,” Igor snaps, his tone hard. “We don’t have all the answers yet, but we’re working on it. That’s why Montoya is here. To discuss next steps.”

Montoya raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “Discuss, or shift blame?”

Igor’s gaze sharpens, his jaw tightening again. Aleks steps in smoothly, his tone calm and diplomatic. “No one’s shifting blame. We’re here to resolve the issue and move forward. That benefits all of us.”

Timur nods, his expression frozen. “Aleks is right. Let’s focus on solutions, not finger-pointing.”

Dimitri’s glare softens somewhat, though his tone remains cold. “Fine. But I expect answers by the end of this meeting.”

As the conversation shifts to logistics and strategies, I listen intently but notice my focus drifting.

I glance around the room, watching the interplay of power and tension between the men, and one thing becomes crystal clear.

This isn’t a dinner. It’s a battlefield.

And I’m sitting right in the crossfire.