Page 50 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

He’s quiet for a breath. When he speaks again, there’s dust in his throat, scratching up his voice. “And?”

“Anything that happens between us happens because we want it. Organically. Not because there could be a baby. And definitely not because you’ve scheduled your own death for easy paperwork.” I take his hand in mine. “If we end up somewhere, we end up there for us. That’s the only reason to do any of it.”

He studies me for a long moment. I brace for the counter-counter. I’ve watched this man spend forty minutes improving a catering contract. And then, as simple as anything, he says, “Agreed.”

I blink. “Just like that?”

“You asked for honesty and effort. I’m capable of both, and I’ve no interest in a wife who was cornered into a chapel.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “Also, you have thrown crockery at me. I take your refusals seriously.”

A laugh gets out of me, and it pulls something loose in my chest that’s been knotted since the bathroom counter. “That’s not true. If I had thrown it at you, I wouldn’t have missed.”

He raises his brows in silent question.

“Two years of high school softball.”

“Ah.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and his hand stays at my jaw longer than the errand required. The rest of that tension subsides from his touch alone. “Understand one thing. The proposal does not expire. It converts to a standing option, exercisable by you, at any time, in any place.”

“Romantic.”

He sits back. “Your turn. You said honesty.”

“That’s right. Honesty, starting now.” I fold my hands on the quilt. “Tell me about the Yakuza, Maxim. There’s all sorts of evidence in the study and your office. Probably other spots in the house. And I want to know the rest of the business, because I’m done with surprises.”

The room changes temperature. Not colder. More awake. “You’re a thorough guest.”

“I’m an unbearable guest, but if you were going to set me up to inherit your world, I would need to know all of this anyway, wouldn’t I?”

“That’s a fair point.” So, he begins without a lecture about snooping, which I appreciate. “Real estate. Money made in certain trades cannot be spent until it is cleaned, and cleaning requires legitimate assets at scale. I’ve those. Buildings, developments, logistics contracts. Organizations pay for access to that legitimacy.”

“The cartels pay you.”

“The cartels are clients. Not partners. There is a difference, and I keep it clear. I wash proceeds through property. I charge heavily. I’m very good at it.”

“And Japan?”

“The same service, reversed. When I built the Pacific routes, the Yakuza provided what I provide here. Cover, introductions, protection while I was a stranger in their ports. There is a kumicho in Osaka, an old man now. He likes to be called Sensei by foreigners.” He smirks to himself. “He’s the nearest thing I’ve to a friend outside this family, and if you ever meet him, he’ll pretend to speak no English but understand every word you say. He finds it very funny.”

“How does a Bratva Pakhan make friends with a kumicho?”

“Years of courting him. The first year, tea and the weather. The second year, tea in his garden. The third year, tea, and at the end of it he slid a contract across the table that he had drafted months earlier. Patience is his entire business, Thea. You cannot rush Sensei, so I took my time. I paid my respects. And I’ve been rewarded.”

I sit with all of it. “But… Yakuza, Maxim. They’re dangerous⁠—”

He chuckles. “As am I. You’ve known that for a while, and don’t seem that put off by it.”

“Should I be scared of them? Your clients. Your kumicho. Any of it.”

He takes my hand, folding my fingers into his. “No. My connections do not touch what’s mine. You have nothing to fear from them.”

“Max—”

“You’re mine to protect now. Both of you.” His hand tightens. “And I do not fail. Not at this. Whatever else I’ve failed at, I won’t fail you.”

I want to believe him. Wanting isn’t the same as believing.

But for tonight, I’ll let it be.

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