Mafia Prince’s Secret Baby (New York Bratva)

13. Igor

13

IGOR

M y parents are waiting for us when we arrive, seated in their grand, ice-cold living room like royalty holding court. The sight is as predictable as it is infuriating. Father sits in his throne-like armchair, stiff-backed and commanding, while my mother perches on the edge of the couch, quiet and beautiful, like a painting meant to be admired but never touched.

With everything else that’s been going on, I realize I forgot to tell them about Sofiya—about the fact that they have another granddaughter. My gaze slides to Aleks, silently hoping he’d handled it. He catches my look, smirks, and shakes his head.

He didn’t.

“What’s the meaning of this?” my father demands, his deep voice cutting through the room. His sharp eyes flick toward Katya, narrowing in a way he reserves for people he considers beneath him—which is nearly everyone. “We’re a respectable family, and as such, we won’t be housing your whores and their spawns.”

His words strike like a slap, and the room suddenly feels suffocating.

“Watch your mouth,” I warn him, my voice low but laced with venom.

“Careful, boy,” he snaps back, leaning forward, his gaze colder than Siberian ice. “I’m not just your father. I’m your pakhan . You’ll do well to remember that before you step out of line.”

“Respect?” I echo, a humorless laugh spilling from my throat. “You want respect ? You’ve been nothing but a pathetic drunk lately, hiding behind the men who still fight for you.”

The room plunges into silence. My mother stiffens, but she doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t during moments like these. Aleks shifts his weight, his hands shoved casually into his pockets, but his gaze sharpens.

Finally, my father speaks, his voice cutting and calm—too calm. “Since you think you know everything, son, why don’t you explain to me why I should tolerate a mongrel and her dirty child in my house?”

His words twist something in my chest. I don’t know what burns more—the insult itself or the knowledge that my mother’s disapproving gaze is locked on me, not him. My jaw tightens as I fight to rein in my temper.

“Fuck you,” I snarl before I can stop myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Katya’s icy glare, her anger barely contained. She looks ready to burst, and I don’t know if she’s pissed at my father or at me for stooping to his level. Probably both.

“Let’s all take a moment to talk about this,” Aleks interjects, his tone far too diplomatic for the room full of simmering tempers.

Katya takes a step closer to Sofiya, her hand settling protectively on her daughter’s shoulder. “It’s fine. We’re leaving.”

“No!” My voice snaps through the room like a whip. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Aleks jumps in again, his tone calm but firm. “Damien, why don’t you show Sofiya your room?”

Katya’s eyes narrow, her voice sharp. “I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

“Worry about yourself for a change,” I snap, my tone as icy as my father’s glare.

“Tell your mistress to stay the hell out of it,” my father barks, his anger now directed squarely at Katya.

The rage that’s been simmering in my veins boils over. My fists clench, and I have to count to ten just to stop myself from doing something I can’t take back. One wrong word, one wrong move, and I’ll end up strangling the old bastard right here in the living room.

“Sit. Down,” I bark at Katya, my patience hanging by a thread.

She glares at me, pure fire blazing in her green eyes, before shoving past me and dropping onto the couch. Her arms cross tightly over her chest, her entire posture screaming defiance.

The only thing that gives me any relief is watching Damien gently take Sofiya’s hand and lead her to his room. At least the kids won’t have to watch this shitshow.

Once they’re gone, I turn my attention back to my father. My mother sits beside him, silent and submissive, her gaze pinned to a point on the rug. She wasn’t always like this. I remember a time when she had fire in her. Before he extinguished it.

That future—the one where I become my father, and Katya my mother—is a fucking nightmare. I like my women fiery, sharp, and defiant, except when they’re in my bed. There, I’m the one in charge.

“You want to talk?” I say finally, my voice tight with suppressed rage. “Fine. Her name is Katya Volkova.”

My father’s brow furrows slightly, his expression shifting as recognition dawns. “Nikolai’s sister. She was at the wedding.”

“Yes,” I say flatly. “And she’s Sofiya’s mother.”

His eyes narrow at Katya, his suspicion palpable. “Where the fuck do you fit into all this?” he demands, his tone dripping with disdain.

Katya doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, that’s enough of your bullshit,” she snaps, her voice sharp and clear. “You’ll kindly bring your superiority complex down a notch and address me the way I deserve. From now on, you’ll call me Katya. Or, if you prefer, Honorable Judge Volkova . And if you use the latter, I’d advise you to add a plea—preferably not to fuck up your businesses in Russia, because it wouldn’t take much effort for me to make that happen.”

My mother lets out a nervous chuckle, her lips twitching into a faint smile she quickly tries to suppress.

I want to laugh too, especially at the look of stunned disbelief on my father’s face. No one has ever spoken to him like this. I should probably be concerned, but I’m not. Not even a little. If anything, I’m entertained.

“A judge, huh?” my father finally scoffs, his composure returning. “It’s just what this world needs—another pretentious woman in power.”

“And just what you never had,” Katya fires back, her voice venomous.

It’s reckless—dangerous, even—but I don’t step in. Not yet. Let him see that she’s not afraid of him.

“Is there anyone in your family whose brain functions properly?” my father demands, his fury barely contained. “If you think insulting me is going to get you anywhere, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“No one is insulting anyone,” Aleks cuts in, his voice calm but firm. “I think we should all take a breath and sit down. Calmly.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are?” my father barks, his temper flaring. “A therapist?”

Aleks doesn’t flinch. “I’m the man who drops everything to clean up your messes,” he says evenly. “The one who serves you without complaint. The one son who doesn’t fuck up royally.” He glances at me. “No offense, Igor.”

“None taken,” I reply dryly, smirking as I lean back against the wall. Watching my father take hits from Aleks for once feels like poetic justice.

Because the truth is, we’ve all suffered under his reign. And now? I think it’s time he starts to feel the cracks forming beneath his throne.

My mother opens her mouth, hesitates, then finally speaks. “Aleks is right. We should all calm down and talk about this rationally. I’m sure Igor has a good reason for coming here.”

“That I do, Mother,” I say, shifting my gaze to my father, whose expression is teetering between unbridled rage and complete disbelief. “But before we get to that, I want to make an official introduction.” I glance at Katya, sitting tall despite the weight of my father’s glare, then back at my parents. “Father. Mother. This is Katya Volkova, the mother of my child.”

The words hang in the air like a live grenade, the tension crackling around us.

My father’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening. He’s too quiet at first, which is always worse. Seconds tick by, and his silence becomes suffocating. His gaze, cold as frostbite, bores into me.

Then it detonates.

“ Excuse me? ” he booms, slamming his fist into the armrest of his chair.

“Not again,” my mother mutters under her breath, shaking her head. I’m not sure if she’s referring to my father’s outburst or the fact that this is the second time I’ve unintentionally gotten a woman pregnant.

I grit my teeth. “It happened. Sofiya was born, and I just found out about her, okay? Let’s move on. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“Damn right we do,” Aleks interjects, clearly eager to move things forward before my father spirals further. “Igor and I are being targeted.”

My mother stiffens, her hand fluttering to my father’s arm. It’s the kind of gentle touch she uses to reel him back in when his temper threatens to boil over. It works, but barely. He doesn’t lash out again, but his expression remains stone cold, his chest heaving as he breathes through his anger.

“Dimitri,” my mother urges softly, “you have to calm down.”

He mutters something under his breath—something about needing a drink—and my mother rises to fetch one for him. When she returns, he takes it, swallows deeply, and sits forward, his shoulders stiff, his glare bouncing between Aleks and me.

“Speak,” he orders, his voice low and edged with anger. “What happened?”

This is a side of my father I’ve always admired, no matter how much I hate the man himself. The raging drunk falls away, replaced by the cold, calculating pakhan . All sharp edges and iron resolve, the kind of man who thrives in chaos. This is the father I’ve spent my whole life trying to impress, the man whose approval I’ve sought even when I knew I wouldn’t get it.

I keep my voice calm, direct, clinical. “Aleks’s dog was mutilated, stuffed into several boxes, and left on my doorstep. There was also a dead rat. Possibly two. Hard to tell, considering they were in pieces.”

Katya lets out a low gasp beside me, but I don’t look at her. I can’t afford to.

My father’s face hardens. He leans back slightly, crossing his arms, the black gold cufflinks on his sleeves catching the light. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No,” I say firmly. “Unfortunately, it’s not. That’s why we’re here.”

“Strength in numbers,” Aleks adds, his tone even but serious.

Father exhales heavily, his eyes narrowing as he processes the information. “This can mean only one thing.”

Aleks and I exchange a glance before speaking in unison. “The Colombians.”

My father nods slowly, but his expression remains cautious. “We must be certain. It’s a dangerous accusation to throw around without evidence.”

“Perhaps we should invite Montoya to our meeting with Timur,” I suggest. “See how he reacts. His response could tell us something.”

Father’s lips press into a thin line as he considers it. After a long pause, he finally says, “Mikhail will be back for dinner. He was in charge of the shipment, so he’ll need to be there for the meeting.”

My gut twists at the mention of Mikhail. That idiot was the catalyst for this entire mess, and now I have to sit across from him while we clean up his disaster. “There are kids in the house,” I remind my father, my tone sharp. “We can’t have Sofiya and Damien sitting at the same table as mobsters. Let’s skip the dinner and go straight to the meeting.”

“The women can take care of them,” my father replies dismissively, waving a hand as if my concern is trivial. “We’ll have a better chance at gauging their reactions if we ease into the discussion.”

“I want to be present,” Katya declares, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Before I can argue, my mother speaks up. “I’ll stay with the kids upstairs,” she says firmly, cutting off any protest from my father before it can begin. “And it could prove beneficial to show there’s more than one Volkov on our side.”

I glance at Katya, frustration prickling under my skin. She has no idea what she’s walking into, no idea how dangerous this meeting could get. I take a breath, ready to tell her as much, when my father rises from his chair.

“It’s settled, then,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. He turns to Katya, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. “You’re there for decoration. The running commentary will be done by men.”

My mother’s jaw tightens at his words, her fingers curling slightly at her sides, but she says nothing. Instead, she takes his offered arm and allows him to escort her out of the room.

The moment they’re gone, I grab Katya’s wrist and pull her toward me. My grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough to ensure she hears me.

“Don’t fuck this up,” I whisper, my voice low and full of warning.

Her gaze narrows, her green eyes burning with defiance. She yanks her arm free and rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she snaps, turning on her heel.

I reach out instinctively, ready to grab her again, but Aleks steps in, catching my arm before I can.

“Now’s not the time,” he says quietly, his voice steady. “Take the win, Igor.”

I stare at him for a long moment, my anger simmering just below the surface. He’s right. Katya isn’t throwing a fit or demanding to go stay with Nikolai, and for now, that’s a good outcome.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Fine,” I mutter, stepping back.

Katya is already walking away, her head held high, her fiery defiance radiating from every step. I clench my fists, swallowing my frustration.

This isn’t over. After dinner, she and I will have a little talk.

It’s time for Sofiya to find out she has a father. Whether Katya likes it or not.