Mafia Prince’s Secret Baby (New York Bratva)

18. Katya

18

KATYA

B reakfast with the Sokolovs is, without a doubt, one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life.

Around the long, intimidating dining table sits a mix of hostility, indifference, and forced politeness. It’s a room full of power, but no one seems to know how to deal with me . Besides Igor and his father—who’s making it his mission to ignore me entirely—everyone else’s reaction to my presence seems to be either amusement or suspicion.

I’m the outsider who brought a secret into their tightly controlled world. And now that they know Sofiya is Igor’s daughter, I can feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on me. They resent me for keeping her from them.

Sofiya, oblivious to the tension, laughs at something Aleks signs to her. Out of all the Sokolovs, Aleks is her favorite after Damien, and it’s easy to see why. He’s the only one who knows sign language, and I’m grateful she has someone else to communicate with. Someone who can bring a smile to her face.

But not everyone shares that sentiment.

Igor, seated across from us, is far from happy. He doesn’t say anything outright, but I can tell. It’s in the way his jaw tightens every time Aleks makes Sofiya laugh. The way his eyes narrow, hard and unrelenting, even as he tries to appear composed. He’s furious, and this passive-aggressive energy of his makes me want to grab Sofiya and run far away from this place.

But no matter how much I want to run, there’s a part of me that stays drawn to Igor. Like a moth to a flame, I keep circling the fire, knowing it will burn me but unable to resist the pull. Maybe I’m crazy, or maybe I’ve convinced myself that this dangerous game is our only salvation.

Not that Nikolai agrees with me. My brother hates that we’re here. Every time we speak, he reminds me of what Igor did—that it was his recklessness that caused the accident that killed our mother. As if I’ve forgotten.

I haven’t.

But Nikolai is hardly one to talk. He married the sister of the man he claims to hate, didn’t he? If he can move on and make peace with the past, then I should be allowed the same courtesy.

Fucking double standards.

Yet another reason to resent men. They always think they know best.

“Is Sofiya going to school with me?” Damien’s innocent voice pulls me from my thoughts. He looks up at Igor, hope shining in his eyes. “Can she be in my class?”

“She is two years younger than you, so she can’t be in the same class,” Igor tells him, keeping his tone even. “But she’ll come with us when we drop you off.”

“Where are you going then?” Damien asks. “Can I come too?”

“Not this time, D,” Igor replies, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. “But I promise we’ll spend plenty of time together soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Damien nods earnestly.

“Great.” Igor glances at his wristwatch, his smile fading as his expression hardens. “It’s time to go.”

“I can take Damien to school for you,” Irina offers, her voice calm but firm. “It’s important you’re not late.”

“That’s okay—” Igor begins, but his father cuts him off.

“Your mother’s right,” Dimitri says, straightening his tie and giving Igor a pointed look. “Dr. Tolliver is a busy person. We should respect her time.”

Igor’s jaw tightens, and his eyes flash with irritation. “I said we’ll take him. As a family. ”

Dimitri’s chair scrapes against the floor as he sits straighter, pushing the last of his eggs around on his plate. “Don’t you want to bond with your daughter, you insufferable?—”

“Father!” Aleks cuts in, his voice sharp with desperation as he tries to defuse the brewing storm. “They don’t need our help.”

Mikhail snorts from the other end of the table. “Of course. That’s why they moved in here, right? Their independence is truly inspiring.”

“Katya,” Igor says through gritted teeth, his tone low but seething with restrained anger. “The kids should finish getting ready.”

I tap Damien and Sofiya lightly on their knees, urging them to stand.

Damien keeps his head down, his small shoulders tense. Even at seven years old, he can sense the tension brewing in the room, the unspoken war bubbling beneath the surface. It kills me to see him like this, scared to even look at anyone.

Sofiya, in contrast, remains calm and composed. She slides off her chair with her usual grace, taking her glass of apple juice with her. After a small sip, she reaches for my hand with her left and Damien’s with her right, guiding us out of the dining room.

I pause at the threshold, turning back to the table.

They’re all watching us—the powerful, calculating Sokolovs, each of them a product of this brutal, conflict-driven world. I offer them my warmest, most charming smile—the perfect poker face. But inside, I’m unraveling. These people only know violence, manipulation, and control. Is this the company Igor wants his children to grow up with? Is this the life Sofiya and Damien are doomed to inherit?

Can I save Sofiya from it?

Or will we all be swallowed whole by this madness?

There’s only one way to find out.

“Go upstairs,” I tell Damien once we’re out of the dining room, repeating the instruction in sign language for Sofiya. “I’ll be right there.”

Even as I watch them scurry up the stairs, a sharp crash echoes from the dining room. The unmistakable sound of glass shattering cuts through the air, followed by Igor’s raised voice.

I freeze, holding my breath.

The argument erupts like a wildfire. Voices overlap, everyone shouting over one another, but Igor’s is the loudest. His curses, sharp and furious, ring out in Russian as he hurls accusations at his father. The venom in his words is impossible to ignore, and before I can make sense of what’s happening, I hear him storming out of the dining room.

I don’t wait to find out if he’s coming for me.

I hurry up the stairs, Damien and Sofiya meeting me halfway. Their wide eyes and nervous expressions tell me everything I need to know—they’ve sensed the chaos, and it’s already left them uneasy.

Without a word, I take their hands and lead them outside.

We reach the car, where four of the Sokolov men are loitering. They straighten as soon as they see us, hurriedly stubbing out their cigarettes like they weren’t just slacking off.

“There you are,” Igor says, appearing behind us. His voice is calm, but the tension in his posture betrays his lingering anger. “Let’s go.”

He’s visibly on edge, his irritation still simmering after the blowout with his family. I rush to secure Sofiya and Damien in their car seats, double-checking the belts.

“First stop, Damien’s office,” Igor says as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

Damien giggles. “It’s not an office, Papa. I’m still in school, you know.”

Igor winks at him in the rearview mirror. “It’s an office for young boys.”

The warmth in his tone, the easy smile on his face—it’s jarring. This is the side of Igor I didn’t think existed. The side that makes me hesitate, makes me doubt everything I’ve told myself about him.

I glance out the window, trying to ignore the way my cheeks flush when his voice drops again, low and teasing.

Even when I’m angry at him, there’s something about Igor that sets my pulse racing. And I hate myself for it.

Because no matter how much I tell myself he’s the enemy, I can’t ignore the truth.

Igor Sokolov is dangerous.

And not just to my heart.

For fuck’s sake, Katya. Get it together.

I press my palms against my thighs, grounding myself as Igor pulls up in front of Damien’s school. He turns his gaze to me. “I won’t be long.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, unbuckling Damien with practiced ease, his large hands gentle as he takes the boy’s small hand and helps him out of the car. The soft murmur of their exchange floats into the air as Igor crouches to adjust Damien’s coat, pulling him close before closing the car door and setting off.

For a fleeting second, I watch them disappear through the front gate, and something inside me tightens.

It’s not jealousy. Not exactly.

But it’s… complicated.

With Igor out of sight, I let my expression drop, finally allowing myself a moment of reprieve. The mask I’ve worn all morning slips, and the flood of exhaustion hits me like a brick. Every second I spend in Igor’s world— their world—makes me feel like that frail girl I used to be. The one who depended too much on other people, who got hurt every time she let herself care.

I hate that feeling.

A soft tap on my shoulder jolts me back to reality. My head snaps around, and I’m met with Sofiya’s wide, curious eyes. She’s signing before I can pull myself together.

“Where are we going?”

“To the hospital,” I reply automatically, my hands moving to match my words. “The doctors want to see you.”

She hesitates for a moment, processing what I said, and then taps her left ear. “My ears?”

I nod. “Yes, sweetheart. We’re going to try something new.”

Her small brows furrow in thought, and I can almost see her piecing things together. Then, to my surprise, her face brightens with one of her radiant smiles—the kind that makes her entire being glow, the kind that makes me think maybe I’m doing something right despite all the chaos surrounding us.

“Don’t be scared, Mama,” she signs, her movements quick but deliberate. “I’ll be okay.”

I return her smile as best as I can, though mine doesn’t reach my eyes. How can it, when I’m still grappling with the weight of this situation? From the corner of my eye, I spot Igor striding back toward the car.

“Yeah, you’ll be okay,” I murmur under my breath, turning forward in my seat before Sofiya can catch the cracks in my composure. “It’s your father who worries me.”

Igor slides into the driver’s seat, his large frame shifting the car slightly as he shuts the door. His eyes flick to Sofiya in the back seat, and for a moment, I catch the faintest glimpse of something soft in his expression.

Something like worry.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his tone neutral.

“Fine,” I reply curtly, keeping my gaze fixed out the window.

We fall into silence as the car pulls away from the school. I can feel Igor’s tension beside me, the way his knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, the subtle stiffness in his shoulders.

He’s still on edge from breakfast, from the fight with his father. Like the anger clings to him long after the words are said.

I keep my eyes on the passing scenery, pretending I don’t notice the way his jaw flexes whenever his thoughts get the better of him. It’s safer this way—keeping my distance, staying out of his orbit. The last thing I need right now is another confrontation.

Sofiya, blissfully unaware of the tension in the front seat, hums softly to herself in the back. I glance at her through the rearview mirror, and my heart tightens.

She deserves more than this.

More than a pakhan prince for a father.

More than a mother who doesn’t know how to shield her from this world.