Page 11 of Mafia Daddy

Maxim turns toward me.

My heart slams against my chest as he steps closer. He’s tall. Broad. Towering. When he lifts his hands and places them around my neck—heavy, warm, fingers spanning my throat—I stop breathing entirely.

This is it.

Fuck.

He’s going to kill me right here in his perfect apartment while Chopin plays in the background. My uncle’s truce means nothing...

I’m dead.

But Maxim doesn’t squeeze.

Instead his thumbs brush lightly along my jaw, almost gentle. His voice is low, rough. “I will do what I can to make you feel at home here, Milo.”

A surge of adrenaline floods my body. My skin prickles. My pulse races under his fingers. And worse, heat pools low in my belly, sharp and unwelcome. My thighs press together instinctively and I tense my ass cheeks.

What the hell is wrong with me? This man just wrapped his hands around my throat and I’m… turned on? I shove the feeling down hard, burying it beneath layers of defiance.

“I want to go to my room,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

Maxim doesn’t move right away. He studies me for another long second, those icy eyes searching mine like he can see every filthy, traitorous thought I’m trying to hide. Then he drops his hands.

“Come.”

Maxim leads the way down the long corridor. Polished marble underfoot, more art on the walls, sparse but expensive as ever. I have to hurry to keep up with his long strides.

The way he moves, the quiet authority in every step… it’s giving serious real Daddy vibes. The kind I fantasize about when I’m alone with Zoop and my toys. The kind that makes my cock throb even now, even in these awful circumstances.

I shake the thought away violently. No. Absolutely not.

This is a mafia boss who just bought me in a territory deal.

He’s not a Daddy. Maxim is not my anything.

We stop at a door near the end of the hall. He opens it and gestures inside. The bedroom is large, elegant. A king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a walk-in closet, another huge window with a view of the city. My suitcase is already waiting just inside.

“Unpack,” Maxim says. “Get used to your new surroundings. I will summon you shortly so we can talk.”

I watch as he sets my suitcase fully inside, then pauses in the doorway, looking down at me. That same unreadable intensity is back in his eyes.

For a second I think he might say something else. Touch me again. But he simply nods once and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

I’m alone.

I sink down onto the edge of the bed, heart still hammering. The classical music drifts faintly through the walls. My suitcase sits there like a reminder of everything I left behind. I drag it closer, unzip it, and pull Zoop out, hugging him tight against my chest.

“This is so fucked,” I whisper into his fur.

But even as I say it, my mind keeps replaying the feeling of Maxim’s hands around my throat—not hurting, just holding. The low timbre of his voice. The way he looked at me like I already belonged to him.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I am in so much trouble.

After a minute I force myself to stand and actually look around. The bedroom is bigger than I expected. The high ceilings with elegant crown molding, and plenty of space for the chaise lounge tucked in the corner by the window. The thing looks insanely comfortable, upholstered in soft charcoal velvet.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a killer view of the glittering city skyline and the dark ribbon of the river below. I can’t deny it: the view is stunning. If I weren’t a prisoner, I might actually enjoy waking up to this every morning.