Page 33 of Mafia Daddy

Body dumped in the river.

No witnesses.

Clean.

My spoon clatters against the bowl. I force myself to breathe normally, but my pulse is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it.

“Okay,” I manage, voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll go get changed.”

Maxim nods once, checking his watch. “Hurry up. The car is waiting downstairs.”

I practically run to my room, heart racing. My hands shake as I pull on jeans and a simple black sweater. I catch my reflection in the mirror: wide eyes, pale cheeks.

Get it together, Milo.

But the fear is real. Last night I was eating ice cream and touching myself while thinking about this man. This morning he might be driving me to my grave. The contrast makes me feel dizzy.

I grab a light jacket and hurry back out. Maxim is already at the door, holding it open. His expression gives nothing away. We ride the private elevator down in silence. Every floor that passes makes my dread thicker.

When we step outside, a matte-black SUV is idling at the curb. The driver doesn’t even look at me as we climb in.

The city slides past the tinted windows. We head west, away from downtown, past the river and into the industrial outskirts. The buildings grow sparser, replaced by overgrown lots and old factories. My hands are clenched so tight in my lap that my nails dig into my palms. I keep stealing glances at Maxim…

He’s checking messages on his phone, completely calm. Like he does this every day.

Of course he does this every day.

The car eventually turns onto a gravel path that crunches loudly under the tires. We’re well outside the city now, surrounded by trees and derelict buildings.

This is it. The perfect spot. No one around. Easy cleanup. I can already picture the gun, the single shot, my body rolling down the embankment into the water.

My breathing gets shallow. I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying not to panic.

The SUV slows to a stop. The driver kills the engine.

Maxim opens his door. “Come.”

I step out on shaky legs, the gravel loud under my sneakers. I scan the area desperately for an escape route that doesn’t exist. Then a side door on one of the large abandoned warehouses creaks open.

The, to my shock, Uncle Paolo steps out.

Relief crashes over me so hard my knees nearly buckle. I run toward him without thinking. “Uncle Paolo!”

He catches me in a quick, firm hug. For the first time since the handover, I feel something like safety. “Milo,” he says, voice low. “You look well.”

“I’m happy to see you,” I whisper, meaning every word.

Paolo pulls back and studies my face, searching. “How is life with the Kovalev family? Be honest.”

I hesitate, hyper-aware of Maxim standing a few feet away. “It’s… okay,” I say carefully. “Not what I expected, but okay. Good. It’s fine. I’m just happy to play my part.”

Paolo nods, satisfied for now. Maxim gestures toward the warehouse entrance. “Shall we?”

We walk inside together.

The place is huge and echoey, dust motes floating in the shafts of light coming through broken windows high above. I immediately spot several of my uncle’s guards positioned near the entrances, hands resting near their weapons. On the opposite side, Maxim’s men are doing the same.

The tension in the air is thick enough to taste.