Page 52 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

She studies me from the window for a moment, and the flirtation drains out of her face. “They said you were blunt, but they undersold it. Was that coldness honed in Japan? Some sort of Zen meditation thing?”

“Call it blunt, call it cold. Whatever you call it, do so from your own office. I do not have time for your games, nor the desire to play them.”

When she breezes past me, unhurried and unbothered, she smiles. “You’ll find my games are the only ones worth playing, Maxim.”

“You’ll find my security will not be as gentle next time, Anya.”

“Promises, promises.”

I resist the urge to slam my door and close it quietly. If I slam it, she’d think she won some imaginary victory. Doesn’t matter in the grand scheme, but when it comes to Anya Sokolov, there’s one question left to me at the moment.

Did Lev arrange this?

He arrives within the hour. I do not sit, and neither does he. He knows I’m displeased, and he tends to avoid comfort when moving quickly could be protective.

“Anya Sokolov was in my chair this morning. Unscheduled, unescorted, unannounced. Did you arrange it?”

“No.” No pause, no flinch, and I believe him. But something moves behind his jaw, and he’s too honest to leave it there. “I did not arrange it. But I gave security standing instructions a month ago. If the Sokolov daughter ever presented herself, she was to be admitted without incident.”

“Tell me why.”

“A door left open costs nothing and might one day stop a war. Merging the families ends this, Maxim. It’s still true even though you hate it. I left the door open. She walked through it sooner than I expected, that’s all.”

“Rescind the standing instructions. Now.”

He takes out his phone, calls the head of security, and cancels the order. “Done.”

“I know you thought you were helping, but⁠—”

“I overstepped. I see that now. My apologies, Maxim. I merely seek to avoid imminent bloodshed. I assume you have a better plan?”

Not especially. “I have a few things in the works.”

He nods. “Of course. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I’m due at the pier⁠—”

“Tell Mickey I said hello.”

He leaves, and I can finally breathe in my own office.

Sometime after lunch, Fedya shows up. He is one of mine, a gray, forgettable man of sixty. When he comes to my office, it is because a thing cannot be trusted to a phone. He tells it flat, the way I pay him to. “Your son dined with Alexei Sokolov two nights ago.”

“The man himself?”

He nods once. “Private room at the Mulberry Street place, four hours, cognac after. Your son picked up the check, or was allowed to believe he did.”

Not great news, but not a surprise, either. “What else?”

“Old Timur asked a question about Niklaus at his granddaughter’s christening. The Reds asked at poker. The talk is the same everywhere. The Vernigora boy eats at the enemy’s table, and the pakhan does nothing.”

“And the conclusion they draw?”

“You’ve gone soft, Maxim.”

Soft is a death sentence. We both know it, which explains why he winced when he said it.

“Thank you, Fedya. Anything else?”

“That’s everything for now.”