Page 12 of Mafia Pregnancy
Radmir
T en weeks have passed since I pressed Danielle against my desk and remembered what it felt like to lose control completely.
Ten weeks of business trips I didn’t need to take, meetings I could have handled remotely, and deals I pursued in person solely to put distance between myself and the woman who cleans my house like she’s trying to scrub away every trace of what happened between us.
I’ve been to Prague twice, spent a week in Monaco handling financial arrangements that my accountants could have managed, and flew to Vancouver for a shipping negotiation that Andrei could have closed over the phone.
Each trip was an excuse to avoid the estate and avoid watching her move through my hallways like a ghost who refuses to acknowledge my existence.
When I am home, she’s perfected the art of being invisible.
She arrives precisely at eight, works in a blur, and leaves at four without making eye contact or engaging in conversation beyond the occasional acknowledgement.
If she’s in a room when I enter, she finds a reason to be elsewhere within minutes.
If our paths cross in the hallway, she studies the floor like it holds secrets more fascinating than anything I might have to say.
It should be exactly what I wanted. Clean, distant, and uncomplicated.
Instead, it’s driving me slowly insane.
I’m reviewing shipping manifests in my office when I catch a glimpse of her through the doorway. She’s cleaning the hallway outside, working along the baseboards.
She looks exactly the same as she did that afternoon when I lifted her onto my desk and reminded myself why I don’t get involved with employees, except for the careful way she holds herself now, like she’s constantly prepared to flee.
I should look away and focus on the documents that actually require my attention instead of watching her dust furniture that’s probably already spotless.
Instead, I catalog the efficient way she moves, the unconscious grace in her posture, and the way she pauses sometimes to check her phone with an expression I can’t quite read.
Footsteps in the hallway announce Andrei’s arrival, and I force myself to look down at the shipping reports spread across my desk. He enters without knocking, as he has for the past eight years, though he stops just inside the doorway.
I don’t have to look up to know he’s watching Danielle work. I can feel his assessment in the sudden stillness of his posture, and the way his presence fills the room with unspoken questions.
She must sense the scrutiny because she gathers her supplies and disappears into the guest room at the end of the hall.
Only then does Andrei move fully into my office, closing the door behind him.
“You’re focused on the wrong thing.” He settles into the chair across from my desk without invitation. “Again.”
I keep my attention on the manifest in front of me, though I’ve read the same shipping container number three times without processing what it means. “I’m reviewing the port situation.”
“You’re watching the help.” His tone carries no judgment, just the flat observation he might use to comment on the weather. “The same way you’ve been watching her for ten weeks, when you’re not conveniently finding reasons to leave the country.”
“The Prague negotiations required?—”
“The Prague negotiations required a phone call and a wire transfer.” Andrei leans back in his chair. “Just like Monaco. Just like Vancouver. You’ve been running from a house cleaner for two-and-a-half months.”
I finally look up from the papers, meeting his steady regard with what I hope is appropriate indifference. “I’ve been managing our international interests.”
“You’ve been avoiding your domestic complications.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through what I assume are his notes from recent surveillance reports. “Which brings us to the actual reason I’m here. We have a problem at the port.”
The shift to business is a relief, even though I know this conversation isn’t over. “What kind of problem?”
“Container 447-B was flagged by customs yesterday. A supposedly random inspection, according to their paperwork. Hard to believe it.” He slides a photograph across my desk. “This was taken three blocks from the customs office two hours before the inspection was announced.”
I study the image of a black sedan with tinted windows. The license plate is partially obscured. “Luca’s people?”
“Most likely. The same car was spotted near our Long Beach facility last week.” Andrei retrieves the photo and tucks it back into his jacket. “Someone’s mapping our shipping operations.”
I lean back in my chair. We’ve been careful to rotate our import routes, use different shell companies for documentation, and vary our timing to avoid establishing patterns.
Luca knows our methods because he helped develop them during the years we worked together, so we’ve been trying to vary them, but clearly haven’t been as successful as I’d hoped. “What was in the container?”
“Legitimate cargo. Electronics from Shenzhen, all properly documented and declared.” Andrei’s slight smile suggests this outcome wasn’t accidental. “The shell company will pass inspection, and there’s nothing to connect the shipment to our operations.”
I sigh. “Yet the inspection cost us time and drew unwanted attention.”
“Exactly. If Luca can trigger random inspections on our legitimate shipments, he can eventually force us to reroute through more expensive channels.”
The strategy is elegant in its simplicity. Rather than directly confronting our operations, Luca is applying pressure through regulatory channels, making our business more complicated and costly without risking open war. “Suggestions?”
Andrei consults his phone again. “We could reroute through Long Beach permanently. They charge higher fees but offer less exposure to Luca’s interference.”
I shake my head before he finishes the sentence. “No reaction. No mess. Not yet.”
His brow wrinkles, indicating he disagrees. “Then we maintain current operations and absorb the occasional inspection?”
“We maintain operations, and we increase surveillance on Luca’s activities.
I want to know every move he makes, every person he talks to, and every place he goes.
S-O-P.” I close the shipping manifests and stack them in a neat pile.
“If he wants to play games with customs inspections, we’ll document his interference and use it against him when the time comes. ”
“Understood.” Andrei makes notes on his phone, though his attention seems divided. “There’s something else we need to discuss.”
Before he can elaborate, I catch a shadow moving past the office doorway. Danielle has returned to the hallway, probably to retrieve something she forgot. Her movements are quick and efficient, but something about her posture suggests she’s listening rather than just working.
I stand and move closer to the door, ostensibly to check it’s closed while actually confirming what I suspect by opening it a couple of inches and peeking out.
She’s positioned near the picture of me with my parents in the hall, supposedly dusting it, but close enough to overhear our conversation while maintaining the pretense of cleaning.
“The shell company documentation needs to be updated,” I say, slightly louder than necessary. “Make sure all the customs paperwork reflects the new corporate structure.”
Andrei picks up the cue immediately. “Already in progress. The lawyers have been handling the transitions since the Montenegro situation became complicated.”
I watch Danielle’s reflection in the hallway mirror. Her hands have stilled on the cleaning supplies, and her head is angled slightly toward our conversation. She’s definitely listening.
“Good. What about the shipment schedules?”
“Coordinated with our partners in Tijuana. Nothing moves without proper documentation through official channels.”
Her eyes narrow slightly at the mention of Tijuana. She’s not just overhearing random business conversation. She’s processing details about shell companies, customs documentation, and cross-border operations with uncomfortable comprehension.
She turns and walks away, disappearing around the corner toward the main staircase, likely unaware I saw her. Her movements are casual and unhurried, though I notice the way she glances back once before vanishing from view.
I close the office door again and return to my desk, where Andrei is watching me with patient curiosity. “How much did she hear?”
“Enough.” I settle back into my chair, running through the possible consequences of what just happened. “Shell companies, customs paperwork, Montenegro, and Tijuana. More than enough to pique the curiosity of the wrong people if she’s indiscreet.”
He looks resigned. “Should I handle it?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with insinuations neither of us needs to spell out. In our world, people who overhear sensitive information become security risks that require permanent solutions. Andrei has handled such situations quietly before.
The thought of him “handling” Danielle sends a surge of protective rage through my chest that surprises me with its intensity.
My hands clench into fists before I can stop the reaction, and I have to take a careful breath before trusting myself to speak.
“No.” The word comes out rougher than I intended, ragged with an emotion I don’t want to examine too closely.
“I’ll handle it myself, if it comes to that. ”
Andrei studies my face with the thoroughness of someone who’s learned to read between the lines of my orders. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“I’m sure it’s necessary.” I force my hands to relax, unclenching fingers that want to wrap around something breakable. “She’s my employee and my responsibility.”
“She’s also the woman you’ve been avoiding for ten weeks after sleeping with her in this office.”