Page 21 of Mafia Daddy

I think back to the old days, when I was nothing more than a street soldier…

Young, hungry, moving through these same blocks with a pistol tucked in my waistband and nothing but instinct to keep me alive. I didn’t have to worry about the weight of an entire organization on my shoulders then.

But I also didn’t have control.

One wrong move, one bad deal, one rival deciding today was the day to settle a grudge, and I could have been caught in someone else’s crossfire and become another nameless body dumped off the western bridge before sunrise.

I do not miss those days.

Now I am Pakhan. If death comes for me, it will be on my terms. Not because some low-level crew got lucky. Not because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. When my time ends, it will be because I chose the fight, because the line was crossed and I delivered the consequences myself.

That’s the plan anyway.

The thought settles something inside me. I adjust my stride and continue toward the Veridian Hotel, a grand gothic building that rises like a dark cathedral at the end of the block.

The building’s stone façade is carved with intricate gargoyles and arched windows that have watched this city change hands for over a century. I step through the heavy revolving door into the hushed elegance of the lobby—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, the faint scent of aged leather and fresh flowers.

A few heads turn, but no one dares hold my gaze for long.

I take the private elevator to the top-floor dining rooms. The door to our reserved suite is already ajar. Michael is waiting inside, seated at the long mahogany table with a neat bourbon in front of him. The heavy curtains are drawn across the windows. Privacy first.

I shrug off my coat and hang it on the rack. “Kobek?”

“Dock situation,” Michael replies smoothly. “Minor crew dispute with one of the longshore unions. Nothing that requires your attention. He’s the best man for it.”

I nod and take the seat across from him. “Good. And I’m guessing when they see Kobek rock up, they’ll all decide that this is a situation that doesn’t require too much more negotiation.”

“Precisely.” Michael swirls the amber liquid in his glass, studying me with that sharp, lawyer’s gaze. “And how is our new houseguest progressing?”

I allow myself a small exhale.

“As expected,” I answer. “The boy is not exactly compliant yet, but he isn’t mounting any serious rebellion either. He tests boundaries. Pushes. Sulks. The usual.”

Michael’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “He’s a handful. Beautiful handful, though. Have you given any thought to making it more… permanent? Seeing him as a potential partner for real?”

I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Now is not the time for jokes, Michael. We have a truce to solidify and a city to keep in line. A true relationship is the last thing on my mind.”

He raises his glass in mock surrender, but the knowing glint in his eyes remains. I ignore it.

The idea is absurd.

Milo is a strategic asset, a live wire I intend to tame.

What the boy most certainly is not is a wife.

We settle into silence as the appointed time nears. Our contact is a man from back in Russia with serious connections—access to military-grade weapons that would let us cut ties with the cartel south of the border.

Cleaner supply lines. Better margins. Fewer complications.

This is exactly the kind of leverage we need while the Lentini truce holds.

I glance at my phone out of habit. The encrypted apps are all quiet. Then, almost without thinking, I open the surveillance feed for the apartment.

The bedroom camera fills the screen.

“You have to be fucking kidding me…”

My blood turns to ice.