Page 32 of Mafia Daddy

The soft click of the apartment door opening.

Shit.

Panic explodes through me. I lunge for the bedside lamp and slap it off, plunging the room into darkness. My heart hammers against my ribs as I lie there, naked, covered in melting ice cream and the evidence of what I just did.

I listen as footsteps move through the living area. I squeeze my eyes shut, barely breathing, praying he doesn’t come check on me.

A long beat of silence.

Then Maxim’s deep, gruff voice carries down the corridor. “Goodnight, Milo.”

Relief floods me so hard my eyes sting. I don’t answer, I don’t trust my voice, but I hear him move toward his own room.

To my relief, his bedroom door closes quietly.

I wait another full minute before I dare turn on the small bedside lamp again. The soft glow reveals the mess I’ve made: streaks of cookie-dough ice cream across my chest, stomach, and thighs, the spoon discarded on the sheets, the tub slowly melting on the nightstand. I look like a decadent disaster.

A shaky laugh bubbles out of me as I slide off the bed on wobbly legs. My dick is still twitching, and my mind is spinning with conflicting emotions. I just masturbated furiously to thoughts of the man who spanked me until I screamed tonight. The same man who ordered my favorite meal, watched a rom-com with me, and then went out to do God-knows-what dangerous underworld business.

I’m so screwed.

In the ensuite bathroom, I turn on the rainfall shower and step under the hot spray. The water rinses away the sticky evidence, but it can’t wash away the memory of how hard I came thinking about Maxim’s hands on me. I scrub myself thoroughly, then dry off and slip into a soft sleep shirt… no bottoms, because apparently that’s the new house rule.

Back in bed, I pull the covers up and hug Zoop tight against my chest. The apartment is quiet again. Maxim is somewhere down the hall, probably already planning tomorrow’s empire-building.

I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily. My body is satisfied, but my mind is wide awake, replaying every second of the evening: the spanking, the ice cream, the orgasm, the quiet “goodnight” that somehow felt protective instead of controlling.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

I’m supposed to hate him.

I’m supposed to be plotting my escape.

Instead, I’m lying here wondering what it would feel like if Maxim had walked in and caught me doing my thing.

The thought sends another shiver through me.

Get it together, Milo.

But as I drift toward sleep, one thing feels terrifyingly clear: Maxim Kovalev is under my skin now.

And I’m not sure I want him out.

I’m scraping the last few soggy flakes of cereal around the bowl when Maxim walks into the kitchen wearing a crisp black button-down and tailored trousers. He looks unfairly put-together for this early in the morning.

I’m still in my sleep shirt, hair messy, spoon halfway to my mouth. At least now I have some panties on though to cover my modesty at least a little bit.

“We’re both going on a little trip,” Maxim says casually, pouring himself a coffee.

My stomach drops like I’ve just stepped off a skyscraper.

A trip.

A little trip.

The words echo in my head as every worst-case scenario floods in at once. This is it. He’s decided I’m more trouble than I’m worth.

Or maybe the truce is already broken and this is how he starts the war—by getting rid of the Lentini bargaining chip. My uncle’s nephew, conveniently eliminated on a “trip” outside the city…