Page 77 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

Everything in the room is functioning to fulfill the responsibilities that his own body has neglected to perform.

I’m no longer in this room. I’ve shifted in my mind to another room, twenty years in the past. A private chamber in the same hospital where the same slow sigh maintained its consistent rhythm. Irina, connected to the same lines, skin graying.

I stood in a doorway identical to this one and realized that all my wealth and reputation were utterly useless against fate. Nothing could save her. I watched her fade away, night after night, listening to the machines perform their diligent work until morning dragged me into sleep.

This time, it is my own child in the bed. I never knew it could be worse than Irina. This is… Every missed moment of every missed day lies on the bed next to him. Regret does not begin to describe it.

And then, there’s the rage. Because a man did this.

Last time, I had no one to blame. This time, I do. He has a name, an address, and a puffy, old face. He’s breathing the fresh air, while my son breathes through a tube. He mocked Niklaus behind his back to lesser men, as Niklaus sought a replacement father in him.

I made my son desperate, and now, he’s clinging to machines for life.

The grief and rage don’t cancel each other out. They merge, flowing together into one burning, molten feeling deep inside me. And that feeling takes shape—its form is a knife for Alexei Sokolov.

I step out of the doorway before I hit the wall the machines need to keep him alive.

In the hall, I call Lev, because it should be done by now. I need to hear his voice confirm that Alexei is in custody. I need to know that one thing has proceeded as I planned.

It rings once. “Maxim.” Not Lev.

It is old and amused. It has no business answering this phone.

The floor tilts as I clear my throat. “Alexei.”

“You’re too old to sound this surprised. You sent one tired man to my door, alone, and you expected what, exactly? But then, you did not know who you were sending, did you?” His laugh is wet and bitter. “That’s the sad part.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

He’s enjoying the conversation. I hear it in his voice. This is nothing but another amusement for him. “Let me give you a gift, Maxim. The truth, since your loyal Lev never did.”

A pause, making me wait for it.

“Have you stopped to wonder how my men managed to get into your house tonight? Through your gate, past your cameras, and your codes? Do you think we just guessed them?”

“You are lying.”

“Your precious sovetnik sold them to me. Every code, every rotation. Weeks ago. Just like the piers. He’s been mine longer than you would sleep well knowing.” I hear his smile. “Why do you think the intelligence you moved your whole army, Maxim? Who gave the orders to your men without blinking? Without telling you what a bad idea it was?”

“You’re a liar, Alexei.”

“And you have been dancing to my tune for a month, old friend. The man calling the steps stood at your right hand and poured your brandy. Tell me, have you been feeling differently after you drink it with him? More relaxed?”

I do not believe him. He’s trying to get in my head, and he is failing.

A stolen phone, then. Alexei took it in the fight and is working me. That’s something Alexei would do.

I reach for an explanation, but it falls apart because a stolen phone doesn’t explain the codes, which let them walk through my gate unchallenged. The codes were Niklaus. I know it.

This is nothing but a wedge, a poison. Also, a thing Alexei would do.

My treacherous mind is already assembling the fragments—the intelligence, the standing order permitting Anya’s entry, and the suggestion to marry her. The ports, the timing. Tonight, coherently fits together as if constructed that way. Too many elements align.

I hate this. “I haven’t been relaxed since the Clinton Administration.”

“Do not worry.” Alexei’s voice drops into something almost gentle. “A traitor is a traitor, and I do not keep them any longer than you would. I’ve attended to your advisor on your behalf. Professional courtesy. Take a look at your messages.”

The line goes dead.