Mile High Daddy (Forbidden Silver Foxes #3)

25. Mikhail

25

MIKHAIL

T he diner is quiet, the late afternoon sun slanting through the windows, catching the glint of silver napkin holders and syrup bottles stacked along the counter. The scent of coffee and fried food lingers in the air.

Torres is already here, seated at a booth near the back, stirring a cup of coffee he won’t drink. A plate of pie sits untouched in front of him.

“I hate this place,” he says when I join him.

I shrug. “Well, it’s just a block down from where Lila works and I can’t be on the road the entire day, waiting for her.”

“You’re like, obsessed with her,” he says, deadpan, before taking a slow sip of his coffee.

I narrow my eyes. “She’s my wife.”

Torres grins. “Yeah, yeah. You keep saying that. But I don’t see you babysitting any of your other investments.”

I shrug. “Tell me what you came here to say.”

His expression sobers, and just like that, the teasing disappears. “Something’s off.”

I tilt my head. “Specific.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on things, like you asked.” He sets his cup down, voice lowering. “And I’m noticing a lot of movement in town. People who don’t belong here. No one’s making noise, but something’s shifting under the surface.”

My fingers drum against the table. “Could be local crews looking for an opportunity.”

Torres shakes his head. “No. It’s not the usual players. At least not what it looks like. This isn’t New York. In fact, this is the most vanilla place I’ve ever been, which is what actually tipped me off in the first place.”

“What else?” I say, knowing Torres isn’t usually spooked.

“Truck movement. Unmarked.” He continues, “A few nights ago, I caught some moving in and out of an abandoned compound about fifteen miles outside of town. Nothing registered to anyone local. No obvious ties. No signs of a known operation. Just men bringing in shipments and leaving just as fast.”

“Drugs?” I ask.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

That makes me pause. If it’s not drugs, then what?

“Could be weapons,” I say after a moment.

Torres leans back, tapping his fingers idly against the side of his coffee cup. “It’s strange, yeah. But it’s not our problem.”

I lift a brow. “You sure about that?”

He nods. “No smoke, no fire.”

“We aren’t that far from New York,” I say. It wouldn’t be the first time someone set up business in the upstate, so close to the border.

“I don’t think any of the New York families are involved. If they were, we’d have heard something by now. Whatever’s going on at that compound, they’re keeping their heads down. Which means they’re either small-time, or they know better than to step on anyone’s toes.”

I exhale, considering. If it’s not a direct threat, then I have bigger concerns.

I drum my fingers against the table, my thoughts shifting. “No one knows I’m in town.”

Torres smirks. “Yeah, you’ve been real discreet, hanging outside coffee shops, tailing your wife.”

I shoot him a look. “Lila is my priority.”

Torres snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, no shit.” He lifts his coffee, sipping slowly like he’s entirely too entertained by this conversation.

I lean back against the booth, rolling my neck to ease the tension. If whatever’s happening out at that compound doesn’t concern me, then I won’t waste my time.

Right now, I have one focus.

Lila.

Lila is quiet the entire ride home.

Too quiet.

She usually fills the space, whether it’s with her snark, her stubbornness, or the way she sighs dramatically when I annoy her. But tonight, she just stares out the window, her fingers curled protectively over her belly.

Something is wrong.

I don’t push. Not yet.

By the time we pull up to the house, the streetlights have flickered on, casting a soft glow over the driveway. I park, shut off the engine, and glance at her. “You okay?”

She nods without looking at me.

She’s lying.

I don’t call her on it.

Inside, I order food, figuring she probably hasn’t eaten properly all day. I don’t expect her to talk much, but I don’t expect her to disappear into the bedroom without a word either.

Something churns in my gut.

Something uneasy.

I give her a few minutes before I follow, pushing the bedroom door open.

And my chest tightens.

She’s curled in on herself, her body a small, trembling shape beneath the blankets, her shoulders shaking silently.

She’s crying.

I’m across the room in an instant, sitting at the edge of the bed, pulling the blanket back just enough to see her face.

“Lila.”

She doesn’t answer, her breath coming in uneven gasps.

“Talk to me, kiska ,” I murmur, brushing a hand over her damp cheek.

She sniffles, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s trying to hold it all in. But then she lets out a soft whimper, her hands clutching at her stomach.

And something in me goes cold.

Her breath stutters, her body tensing. “Mikhail—” she gasps, and her fingers dig into my forearm, clutching me like I’m the only thing anchoring her.

Panic flashes through me, sharp and instant. “What is it?” I demand, my voice tighter than I want it to be.

She lets out another whimper, her body trembling against me. “The babies,” she gasps. “I—I think I’m having contractions.”

My blood turns to ice.

The babies?

No.

It’s too soon.

“Lila,” I say, my hand already reaching for my phone, my brain kicking into damage control.

Her grip on me tightens, and I can feel her body tense again.

“Are they coming?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay calm, even as my heart hammers like a war drum.

She doesn’t answer—she just presses her face into my chest, breathing hard.

And I know.

I need to get her to a hospital. Now.

I don’t remember getting to the hospital.

One moment, I’m lifting Lila into my arms, carrying her down the steps as she whimpers against my chest, and the next, we’re inside, bright lights flashing past me as nurses wheel her into a room.

I stay right by her side, my hand gripping hers, her fingers clutching mine tight enough to bruise. She’s breathing hard, her body tense, and even though I’m used to handling pressure—used to keeping my cool when the world is burning around me?—

This is different.

This is her.

Lila winces again, and I feel helpless in a way I’ve never experienced before.

A doctor comes in, a woman in her forties with calm, kind eyes, and starts checking over Lila. The minutes stretch on painfully long.

And then, finally?—

“It’s false labor,” the doctor says.

My entire body releases a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Lila, still tense, blinks up at her. “False labor?”

The doctor nods, giving her a reassuring smile. “Braxton Hicks contractions. They’re common in the third trimester—especially with twins. Your body is preparing, but this isn’t active labor yet.”

I feel Lila’s grip on my hand ease slightly, but she still looks uncertain, shaken.

I squeeze her fingers, grounding her. “You’re okay,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over her knuckles.

She exhales, shaky, but steadier than before.

The doctor watches the exchange for a beat, then turns to me. “You need to keep her stress levels down,” she says.

I lift a brow. “What do you mean?”

She sighs, glancing at Lila before lowering her voice slightly, like she doesn’t want to speak in front of her.

“She’s under a lot of stress,” the doctor explains. “More than she should be at this stage. If she continues like this, it could trigger preterm labor for real. And that’s dangerous for twins.”

A cold feeling settles in my chest.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” the doctor presses.

I nod once. “I understand.”

But as I glance down at Lila—pale, exhausted, still curled in on herself?—

I know I need to fix this.

Whatever is eating at her, keeping her up at night, making her cry in silence?—

It ends now.

I don’t like hospitals.

They smell like antiseptic and bad news, and there’s always a sense of waiting—waiting for answers, for time to pass, for things to either get worse or miraculously better.

I sit beside Lila’s hospital bed, watching her tug at the thin blanket, her movements absent, like she’s lost in her own head.

She hasn’t looked at me since the doctor left.

Her fingers twitch against the sheet, and I know she’s replaying everything in her mind. The pain, the panic, the words the doctor said. She’s thinking too much.

“Lila,” I say finally.

She doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts, rolling onto her side so she’s facing away from me.

My jaw tightens.

I exhale, forcing patience. “Talk to me.”

She still doesn’t say anything, but I see the slight shake of her shoulders. The exhaustion in the way she curls in on herself.

Then, finally, in a voice so small I almost miss it, she whispers, “I need my mom.”

The words hit me harder than I expect.

Not because she’s demanding, not because she’s fighting me like she always does.

But because she’s not.

She’s just tired.

And for the first time, she’s actually asking me for something instead of shoving me away.

I don’t say anything. I just nod once and step out of the room.

I don’t trust myself to speak right now—not when I can still hear the exhaustion in her voice, not when I can still see the fear in her eyes from when she thought she was losing the babies. I walk down the hall, hands shoved into my pockets, pacing the length of the hospital corridor.

I don’t like this.

I don’t like feeling helpless, like there’s nothing I can do to make things right.

Lila has always fought me, but tonight…tonight, she just looked tired.

And I can’t stand it.

I roll my shoulders as I head down the dimly lit hallway. My pulse is still too fast, my mind too wired from everything that just happened.

I need air.

Outside, the night is cool and quiet, the hospital parking lot mostly empty, streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial the number I never want to use, bringing it to my ear.

Evans picks up on the third ring.

“Didn’t expect to hear from you,” he says, gruff and amused, like this is some casual conversation.

I exhale sharply, already irritated. “I found her.”

Silence. Then?—

“You what ?” His voice drops low.

“You heard me,” I say, pacing slowly along the sidewalk. “I found Lila. She’s with me.”

A long pause. Too long.

Then he laughs, low and bitter.

My jaw clenches. “She was never going to be free from me.”

Evans snorts, clearly unimpressed. “And what, you called to gloat?”

“No,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I need you to bring her mother to town.”

That finally gets his attention. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because Lila asked for her.”

He makes a dismissive noise, like this is an inconvenience. “Since when do you take orders from her?”

I grip the phone tighter. “I don’t want her to be in unnecessary distress when pregnant.”

There’s another pause. “She’s expecting?”

“Yes,” I say.

“You’re dragging me into your mess, Mikhail.”

“She’s your mess too,” I remind him.

He laughs—cold, sharp. “Is that what you think? I did my part. I gave you my daughter, I held up my end of the deal. What happens after that isn’t my concern.”

It takes everything in me not to put my fist through something.

I roll my shoulders, keeping my voice controlled, even. “You’re bringing her mother here. Quietly.”

Evans huffs, like he’s already regretting picking up this call. “You think you can just snap your fingers and I’ll make this happen?” he mutters.

“Yes,” I say flatly.

“Where is she?” he asks, voice sharp.

“Not in New York,” I reply.

He mutters something under his breath, clearly frustrated. “And why me? You have plenty of men who could handle this.”

I exhale slowly, forcing patience. “Your ex-wife knows you. Not my men. She won’t try to do anything stupid with you around.”

He scoffs. “You think she trusts me?”

“I don’t care if she trusts you,” I say flatly. “I just want her to be safe. And I know she’s being watched.”

Evans goes quiet for a beat, but I know he’s putting the pieces together.

Because he knows what it means when I say she’s being watched. And he knows exactly the kind of people who could be doing it.

I don’t say anything about my mother, but I think of her anyway.

Lila’s mother needs to be brought in carefully. No noise. No attention.

“You’re the only one who can do this without drawing too much heat,” I say. “Get her to Camden Hill. Quietly.”

Another pause. Then, begrudgingly?—

“I’ll handle it.”

“Good.”

“I don’t understand,” Evans continues. “Why are you doing this?”

I inhale. Because I love her. Goddamn it, I know the truth in my bones. I’ll go to any lengths for her. But her dirtbag father doesn’t need to know that.

I hang up before he can say anything else, sliding my phone back into my pocket.