Page 47 of Secret Heir

He smiles, relieved. “Okay. Maks.”

The sound of his nickname for me makes a warmth settle within me. It may not be Papa but it’s mine. It’s ours.

“Now,” I say, pushing the reports aside completely. “How about we go look at those adventure books? And maybe we can start planning that fishing trip I promised you.”

His face lights up. “Really? When?”

“This weekend if the weather holds.” I stand and come around the desk. “We can pack a lunch, and spend the whole day at the pond. Just you and me.”

“Can Mama come?” I see the concern in his eyes. He’s always worried about her and checking to make sure she’s included.

“If she wants to.” I ruffle his hair and grin as he bats my hand away. “But it can be a guys’ day if you prefer. Give your mother some time to herself.”

He considers this. “Maybe just us this time. She can come next time.”

Pride swells in my chest. He still wants time alone with me. He wants to build something between us that doesn’t require Aria as a buffer.

We’re getting there. Slowly and carefully, but we’re getting there.

A week later, I’m expecting Alexander Morozov for dinner to discuss some territorial issues in Brighton Beach that need Nikolai’s attention. Alexander has been Nikolai’s right hand for nearly fifteen years. He’s saved my brother’s life twice and is one of the few people in the organization that both Nikolai and I trust implicitly.

He arrives at seven, his car pulling up to the front entrance. I meet him at the door, and we embrace in the Russian way—a brief, firm hug, a hand clasp and shoulder bump.

“Maksim.” His voice is smooth and cultured. Alexander has always had a way of making everything sound refined. “Thank you for hosting. I know you prefer your privacy here.”

“Nikolai said it was urgent.” I step back to let him in. “Besides, it’s good to see you.”

He’s dressed impeccably as always in a tailored gray suit, crisp white shirt, and shoes polished to a mirror shine. At forty-six, Alexander is a year older than Nikolai, with dark hair mostly grayed and cold blue eyes that miss nothing.

He’s lean and athletic, maintaining his physique with the discipline of someone who came up through the ranks as an enforcer before rising to his current position.

There’s a distinctive burn scar on his left hand from a car ten years ago. He usually keeps it covered with gloves, but tonight his hands are bare.

The scar tissue is shiny and pink, extending from his knuckles to his wrist. I don’t blame him. It’s a warm and muggy evening, even for the Hamptons.

“How is your brother?” Alexander asks as we walk toward my office.

“Busy. The expansion into⁠—”

I stop mid-sentence.

Aria is in the hallway, clearly on her way to the library. She’s wearing jean shorts that hug her ass and a green tank top, her long hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

She looks beautiful and my heart leaps into my throat.

Then she sees Alexander.

For a split second—so brief I almost miss it—her face goes completely white.

Her eyes go wide, pupils dilating with what looks like pure terror.

She freezes mid-step, one hand coming up to grip the wall like she needs the support to stay upright.

But by the time I blink, it’s gone. Her expression smooths out, and she straightens her spine.

“Excuse me,” she says, her voice steady. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

She turns and walks away quickly, disappearing around the corner toward the library. She’s not running or showing fear, but she’s moving with purpose, like she needs to put distance between herself and us immediately.