Page 28 of Mafia Daddy

Milo holds my gaze for several heartbeats, then gives a small nod. “I understand.”

Progress. Small, but real. Right now, I’ll take it.

I push back from the table and head to the kitchen. The delivery bags are still on the counter. I pull out the pint of triple-cookie-dough ice cream from Carlo’s Creamery downtown, another one of his favorites according to Michael’s updated dossier, and grab two spoons.

“Come,” I say, returning to the table. “We can eat this in front of the TV. Put a movie on. Something mindless.”

Milo’s face brightens a fraction. He actually looks pleased. We move to the living area, settling into opposite leather armchairs.

Milo curls his legs beneath him carefully, no doubt still feeling the effects of his punishment, and scrolls through the streaming options until he picks a new romantic comedy…

Bright colors, witty banter, the kind of film I would normally avoid like the plague.

I don’t complain.

As the opening credits roll and we dig into the ice cream, I try to focus on the screen. I really do. But my mind keeps drifting back to earlier…

The way he kicked and squirmed across my lap.

The sharp cracks of the hairbrush on his perfect ass.

The soft, broken sounds he made when the pain finally cracked through his defiance.

For a moment there, I swear he was grinding against my thigh, chasing something more than just relief.

My cock thickens against my thigh at the memory, heavy and insistent. I shift in my chair, trying to will it down. This boy is under my protection, a symbol of the truce, and yet all I can think about is how beautifully he took his discipline. How his body responded even when his mouth fought me.

A soft buzz pulls me out of the dangerous spiral. My phone vibrates on the side table. Michael’s name appears on the encrypted screen.

I read the message once, jaw tightening..

MICHAEL: Pakhan, situation escalated. Need you on site. Kobek is holding, but your presence is needed.

Duty calls. As always.

I stand, setting the ice cream tub down. Milo pauses the movie and looks up at me, expectant.

“I have to go out,” I tell him. “Business. Behave while I’m gone. No funny business this time.”

He nods quickly. “I promise.”

I study Milo for a second, searching for any flicker of deception. There is none, only tired honesty and the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks.

“My security team will be right outside the door,” I add. “Just in case.”

Milo meets my eyes without flinching. “You can count on my promise, Maxim. I won’t cause trouble tonight.”

Something in the boy’s voice rings true. I give him one last long look, then button my jacket.

“Finish your ice cream. Rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

I head for the private elevator, already shifting into the cold, calculating mindset I need for whatever mess awaits at the bar downtown.

But even as the doors slide shut and the city drops away beneath me, my thoughts circle back to the boy I left curled in my armchair…

Milo Pirlo-Lentini is far more than a bargaining chip.

He is a complication.