Page 7 of Mafia Pregnancy

Radmir

T he morning briefing takes place in the conference room overlooking the harbor, where Andrei has spread surveillance photos across the mahogany table like pieces of a puzzle I’d rather not have to solve.

Coffee steams in porcelain cups, but neither of us touches them. The images command all our attention.

“This was taken Tuesday morning at the Clearwater property.” Andrei slides a photograph toward me. “That’s the same vehicle we spotted near the port last month.”

I study the grainy image of a black sedan parked across from one of our older warehouses. The license plate is obscured, but the positioning is deliberate. Whoever was driving wanted to be seen without being identified.

“How long were they there?”

“Forty-seven minutes. Long enough to catalog everyone coming and going, but not long enough to draw attention from local patrols.” Andrei produces another photo. “This is from the Marina district, same day. Different car, same pattern.”

The second image shows a gray SUV positioned with clear sightlines to the shell company we use for equipment purchases. Again, the timing suggests surveillance rather than random presence.

“Luca’s being methodical about this.” I set down the photos and lean back in my chair. “He’s mapping our operations and maybe testing our response times.”

“Or he’s looking for weaknesses.” Andrei’s voice carries the weight of shared history. “The way he used to do when we worked together.”

Before Montenegro. Before everything changed between us, and loyalty became a luxury we could no longer afford to give Luca. “Tell me about the personnel.”

Andrei flips through his notes. “There have been three confirmed sightings of Viktor Kozlov in the last two weeks. He was spotted near the port authority building and twice at that coffee shop on India Street.”

Viktor has been his enforcer since the split. He’s a man who takes pride in making problems disappear permanently, and his presence in San Diego means this isn’t just reconnaissance. Luca is preparing for something more direct.

“What about the others?”

“Dmitri Petrov was seen at a strip club in Pacific Beach. That could be personal, but the timing makes it feel otherwise.” He slides another photo across the table. “This is Anton Volkov outside a gun shop in Santee.”

I examine the image of Anton, recognizing the careful way he carries himself even in civilian clothes. He’s likely shopping for untraceable weapons, which means Luca expects this situation to escalate beyond negotiations.

“Same crew as Montenegro.” I stack the photos and hand them back to Andrei. “He’s bringing the band back together.”

“Looks that way. The question is whether he’s planning to finish what he started there, or if this is something new.”

Montenegro was supposed to be simple. It was to be a meeting with Albanian suppliers, a handshake deal to expand our territory into Eastern Europe, and a partnership that would have made all of us rich beyond our wildest dreams. Instead, two of my best men died in an ambush that someone had leaked to our competitors.

I never proved Luca was the source of that leak, but I didn’t need proof. I knew him well enough to recognize ambition when I saw it, and he had always wanted to be the one making decisions instead of following them.

“Double the security rotations at all properties.” I stand and move to the window, watching morning traffic flow along Harbor Drive.

“I want armed response teams within five minutes of every location, and I want to know about any vehicle that parks within three blocks of our operations for longer than twenty minutes.”

“Already in motion. What about the estate?”

The question I’ve been avoiding. Increasing security here means acknowledging Luca might target my personal space, the sanctuary I’ve built to separate my private life from the violence that funds it.

It also means accepting that everyone who works or lives here becomes a potential casualty in a war that started long before they entered my world.

Including Danielle.

“Discreet upgrades only. I don’t want to alarm the household staff, but I want early warning systems on every approach.” I turn back to Andrei. “I want background checks run on everyone who’s had access to the property in the last month.”

“Everyone?”

“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 can watch 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 perfect night, 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.”