Page 15 of Mafia Daddy

The realization settles over me like a second skin. It explains the club he was at, the way he carries himself, the hidden vulnerability beneath all that bratty fire. My pulse kicks harder. The thought of this fiery, mouthy boy kneeling at my feet in nothing but a collar and that innocent need… it does dangerous things to my self-control.

Enough observation.

I tap the intercom built into the wall panel. My voice carries through every speaker in the apartment, low and calm.

“Milo. Come here. Now.”

He startles visibly on the feed, head snapping up, eyes wide. A second later his bedroom door flies open and he storms down the corridor, cheeks flushed with a mixture of shock and irritation.

Good. I want the boy off balance.

When he reaches the living area I’m already seated again, phone set aside, one ankle resting casually on the opposite knee. I gesture to the leather armchair directly across from me.

“Sit.”

He hesitates only a fraction of a second before dropping into the chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. Defiant posture. But he obeyed.

“Good boy,” I say quietly.

His eyes flash with surprise, and something hotter, before he masks it with a scowl. I file that reaction away for later.

“We need to be clear about how this arrangement works,” I begin, voice steady. “The truce between the Kovalev and Lentini families is delicate. One misstep from either side could unravel everything. Your presence here is both a symbol of good faith and a potential weakness. As long as you are obedient, discreet, and do not bring embarrassment to Kovalev business, we will get along just fine.”

Milo’s jaw tightens.

“Obedient,” he repeats, the word dripping with sarcasm. “Like a dog?”

I ignore the bait. “You will have certain freedoms. Clothes, food, access to the apartment. Limited contact with the outside world, under supervision. But any indiscretion, speaking out of turn to the wrong people, attempting to sabotage the truce, or behaving in a way that draws unwanted attention… will be punished. Personally. By me.”

He leans forward, fire in his eyes. “You can’t just⁠—”

I stand slowly, unfolding to my full height. The movement cuts him off mid-sentence. I step around the glass table until I tower over him seated form. Milo has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. The air between us crackles.

“I will not tolerate any form of dissent,” I say, each word measured and final. “That is not how I run my business. That is not how our relationship will play out. Do you understand?”

Silence stretches.

Milo’s breathing has quickened. I can see the rapid flutter of his pulse at the base of his throat. For a moment I think he might push harder just to test me. Then his shoulders drop a fraction.

“…Yes,” he mutters sullenly.

“Yes, what?”

His lips press into a thin line. “Yes… I understand.”

I hold the boy’s gaze a beat longer, letting the weight of my expectation settle over him, before returning to my seat. “Good. Now, you must be hungry. I’ll make you a late supper. After that, straight to bed.”

Milo nods silently, still radiating resentment, but the fight has temporarily gone out of his posture. I head into the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves.

I keep it simple—buttered toast, a glass of water. While the bread toasts I watch Milo from the corner of my eye. He stays in the armchair, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. That same mix of defiance and vulnerability that keeps pulling at something deep inside me.

As I plate the food and carry it over, the thought returns, clearer than before…

The sooner I take this boy over my lap and show him exactly who is in control, the quicker he will settle into his new reality.

I set the plate in front of Milo. “Eat.”

I watch as Milo picks up the fork without argument this time. I sit across from him again, sipping another measure of vodka, content to watch him in silence while the city lights glitter beyond the rain-streaked windows.