Page 3 of Mafia Pregnancy

Radmir

T he Zurich flight lands at San Diego International at six in the morning, three hours ahead of schedule thanks to favorable winds over the Atlantic.

I’ve been traveling for eighteen hours, but my body refuses to acknowledge the fatigue that should be crushing me by now.

Instead, I’m wired with the kind of restless energy that comes from closing a deal worth eight figures while maintaining the careful balance between legitimate business and the darker enterprises that fund it.

Success follows three weeks of meetings with Swiss bankers, German shipping executives, and a particularly tedious Bulgarian who insisted on conducting business over seven-course dinners that lasted until midnight.

I endured sterile hotel rooms and conference calls that started before dawn and three weeks away from San Diego, the estate, and the life I’ve built here.

I had three weeks to forget about the application photo that crossed my desk the day before I left, belonging to Danielle Arden.

Even her name on the employment roster made something twist in my chest, a sensation I thought I’d buried four years ago along with the memory of citrus perfume and wine-stained lips that tasted like promises I assume neither of us intended to keep.

The moment I saw her photograph, I should have rejected the application and told Carmen to find anyone else to fill the position.

Instead, I approved it without hesitation, then spent three weeks in Europe trying to convince myself it was a coincidence.

The woman who haunted my dreams for months after I walked away couldn’t possibly be the same one applying to clean my house.

Now, as my driver navigates the morning traffic toward La Jolla, I know I was lying to myself.

I recognized her instantly, just as I recognized the pull she still has on me.

Her image on paper could make me forget about billion-dollar acquisitions and focus instead on the memory of her laugh when she couldn’t work the wine opener in that hotel room.

I should fire her before she can start. Maybe send Carmen a text and have it handled before I even walk through the front door.

It would be cleaner that way and safer for both of us.

Instead, I’m curious about what four years have done to her, whether she still has that unconscious grace when she moves, and if her voice still carries that slight rasp when she’s nervous or excited.

The estate appears around the final curve.

Home, though the word feels insufficient for what this place represents.

It’s a fortress, a sanctuary, and a carefully constructed symbol of everything I’ve built from nothing.

Somewhere inside, Danielle is learning the layout, touching surfaces I’ve touched, and breathing air I’ve breathed.

I park in the garage and enter through the side door, moving quietly through the kitchen where Mrs. Yranda, my housekeeper, is already preparing coffee.

She’s been with me for six years and is a quiet woman in her fifties who manages the household with military precision.

She never asks uncomfortable questions about my business or the odd hours I keep.

She looks up when I enter, surprise flickering across her features.

“Mr. Vetrov. I wasn’t expecting you until later. ”

“The flight was early.” I pour myself coffee from the carafe, inhaling the familiar blend I have shipped from a small roastery in Vienna. “How are things here?”

“Very smooth, sir. The new cleaning girl started today. Carmen vouched for her personally.”

I nod as if the information means nothing to me, and I haven’t spent the last three weeks wondering what it would be like to see her again. “Good. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

Instead of heading directly to my study, I end up taking the long way through the house, past the guest quarters and up the main staircase toward the gallery.

The house feels different with her presence in it, charged with an energy I didn’t anticipate.

Every room holds the possibility of an encounter.

It’s unsettling in a way that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with memories I thought I’d successfully buried.

I hear her before I see her, alerted by the soft scrape of a ladder being positioned against the wall in the gallery outside my office. She’s cleaning the tall windows that line the hallway, working from one end to the other.

Her dark hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she’s wearing jeans and a simple blue shirt that brings out the golden flecks in her eyes. Even from this distance, I can see the careful way she moves, testing each rung of the ladder before trusting it with her weight.

She reaches for the corner of the window frame, stretching to clean a stubborn spot, and I see the moment the ladder begins to shift beneath her. My body moves before my mind catches up, crossing the space between us in three quick strides.

The ladder gives way just as I reach her, and I catch her waist, pulling her back against my chest before she can fall. For a moment, we’re frozen like that, her body pressed against mine, my hands spanning her ribs, and both of us breathing hard from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

She’s warm and solid in my arms, exactly as I remember, and the scent of her shampoo mingles with the cleaning supplies to create something that makes my chest tighten with recognition.

Four years collapse into nothing and suddenly, we’re back in that hotel room where she fit against me like she was made for it.

Then she turns in my arms, and I’m looking into those hazel eyes that haunted my dreams for months after I walked away. For a split second, I see recognition, shock, and something that might be longing before she carefully blanks her expression.

“Mikhail?” The name falls from her lips like an accusation, and I know in that moment that she remembers everything. Every kiss, every touch, and every promise I made in the dark before disappearing from her life without explanation.

I should acknowledge it and tell her the truth about who I am and why I lied. Instead, I steady her on her feet and step back, forcing my expression into the mask of polite indifference I’ve perfected over years of dangerous negotiations.

“Careful.” The word comes out rougher than I intended, betraying more than I want to reveal. Then I walk away, leaving her standing there with questions I’m not ready to answer.

I make it halfway down the hall before I have to stop, pressing my palm against the wall and fighting the urge to go back to her to explain everything, apologize for the lies and the years of silence, and ask what happened to her after I left, and whether she ever thought about that night the way I did.

She remembers. She knows exactly who I am, just as I know who she is, but I hope she’ll forget that or go along with my cue of pretending we’re strangers, maintaining the fiction that keeps us both employed and unentangled.

I should be relieved that she didn’t get insistent or push me past saying the name of the identity I used at that time.

Instead, I’m disappointed in a way that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the part of me that hoped she might call me on the deception.

Did I want her to force my hand and make me acknowledge what happened between us? I shouldn’t, but part of me does.

She won’t. She can’t. I tell myself she’s too smart for that. She surely needs this job more than she needs closure, and I hope that means she’s willing to pretend I’m nobody to keep it.

My computer chimes with an encrypted message from Andrei, and I force myself to focus on the screen instead of the woman working outside my door. Business first. Always business first.

The message is brief: Need to debrief. One hour.

I respond with a single word: Confirmed.

I settle back in my chair and close my eyes, trying to push away the memory of the way she said my alias like it was something precious. Like it belonged to her.

Mikhail Petrov.

The name I gave her because the truth was too dangerous, too complicated, and too likely to get us both killed if the wrong people found out.

Four years later, I can admit it was also cowardice.

I could have found a way to see her again and arranged things so that what happened between us didn’t have to end with sunrise and carefully neutral goodbyes.

I chose not to. I opted for the safer path that protected my empire and my sanity but left her with nothing but lies and a fake identity to remember me by.

Now she’s here, moving through my house like a ghost I conjured through sheer force of will, and I don’t know what that means for either of us.

Andrei arrives exactly one hour later, as punctual as ever.

He’s been my second for eight years and worked with me for fifteen, so he’s been around long enough to read my moods and know when to push and when to let things lie.

Today, he takes one look at my face and pours himself coffee from the carafe on my side table before settling into the chair across from my desk.

“How was Zurich?”

“Productive. The shipping contracts are finalized, and the new routes through Hamburg will be operational by next month.” I slide a folder across the desk to him. “The details are there. What’s the situation here?”

Andrei’s expression grows serious. “We have a problem. Luca Sokolov is back in La Jolla.”

The name hits me like cold water, washing away any lingering thoughts of the woman outside my door. Luca is my former partner, former friend, and the man who would have been my brother if blood and betrayal hadn’t made us enemies instead. “You’re certain?”