Page 12 of Mafia Daddy

But I’m not here to admire the décor. Far from it.

My mafia instincts kick in hard. I’ve grown up around this shit long enough to know better. I start with the obvious places…

Light fixtures, the smoke detector, behind the mirrors, under the nightstands, inside the lamps. All clear.

I run my fingers along every edge, checking for pinhole cameras or listening devices.

I even lift the edges of the area rug and inspect the baseboards. Nothing. Not a single wire, lens, or weird bulge.

I move to the ensuite bathroom next. Marble everything, a massive rainfall shower, and a deep soaking tub that looks like it could fit two people comfortably.

“Come on, there must be something,” I mutter, a note of exasperation in my voice.

I check the vents, the mirror cabinet, even behind the toilet.

Still nothing.

Either Maxim is arrogant enough not to bug the guest room, or his people are just that good.

I step out of the bathroom, still scanning the ceiling⁠—

And freeze.

Maxim is standing right there, silent as death, towering over me in the doorway. His broad frame blocks most of the light from the hall.

I jump so hard my back hits the doorframe. A pathetic little scream escapes my throat before I can choke it down.

“Jesus Christ!” My hand flies to my chest, heart trying to punch its way out. “You… you…”

Maxim’s lips curve into a slow, wicked smile that does dangerous things to my insides. “Relax, Milo. If I wanted you dead, I would have done it already and dumped your body long before we reached the bridge.”

The casual way Maxim says it, like he’s commenting on the weather, makes my skin crawl. I roll my eyes dramatically, trying to salvage what’s left of my pride.

“Yeah, well, creeping up on people like a damn ghost isn’t exactly reassuring,” I say, plucking up the courage to throw something back at him in the form of my sass.

But Maxim doesn’t laugh. He just watches me with that same piercing stare from the car, like he’s cataloging every twitch, every defensive micro-expression.

“It’s time we had a chat, boy.”

My stomach drops. I don’t want to chat. I want to lock myself in here with Zoop and pretend the last twenty-four hours never happened.

Maxim steps back and gestures toward the hallway. “Out of the bedroom. I will follow. We’re going to take a guided tour of the apartment… including where the cameras are.”

Heat floods my face. Oh my God. He saw me searching. Of course he did. I cringe so hard I want the marble floor to swallow me whole.

Damn, Maxim is good.

I hate how easily he’s already one step ahead.

I walk out ahead of him, arms crossed tight over my chest like armor. He stays close behind, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body and hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

The apartment feels even bigger now that it’s just the two of us. The sparse, expensive minimalism I noticed earlier hits differently under soft lighting. Every piece of art is perfectly placed. Every surface gleams. It’s beautiful, but it feels more like a high-end fortress than a home.

Maxim guides me through the living area first, pointing out the obvious security features—motion sensors discreetly placed near the windows, reinforced glass, a panic button disguised as part of the sound system. Then he shows me two tiny cameras hidden in the corners of the main room, their lenses so small I never would have spotted them on my own.

“You’ll have privacy in your bedroom and bathroom,” he says, voice low and matter of fact, “but the rest of the apartment is monitored. For your safety as much as mine.”

I scoff. “Safety. Right. Because kidnapping me at midnight was super safe.”