Page 34 of Mafia Daddy

Maxim turns to me. “Wait over there on the old couch. This won’t take long.”

I obey without argument, crossing the concrete floor to a faded, dusty couch in the corner. I sink down, pulling my knees up.

From here I can watch everything…

Maxim and Paolo walk to the far side of the warehouse, voices too low to carry. They pace slowly as they talk, gesturing occasionally. Whatever they’re discussing looks serious—both men are focused, intense. Guards from both families stand watch, eyes scanning every shadow.

This isn’t a social call. This is business. Dangerous business.

I try to read their body language. Maxim stands tall and commanding, arms crossed at one point. Paolo listens, then responds with sharp hand movements. At one moment Maxim glances in my direction, and even from this distance his gaze feels heavy. I look away quickly, heart fluttering.

After what feels like forever but is probably only twenty minutes, Maxim walks back toward me. “We’re leaving.”

Paolo follows and stops in front of me. “Take care of yourself, Milo. Remember who you are.”

“I will,” I promise.

He gives me one last nod, then turns and disappears back into the warehouse with his men. Maxim places a hand lightly on my lower back—not possessive, just guiding—and leads me outside to the waiting SUV.

We drive away in silence for a few minutes. The knot of fear in my chest slowly unwinds, replaced by exhausted relief…

I’m not dead. Not today, anyway.

Maxim finally speaks. “We’re going to stop somewhere for food.”

My stomach rumbles at the idea. The cereal feels like it was days ago. “Can we pick up some more ice cream?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Maxim turns his head, one dark eyebrow raised.

A slow, knowing smile curves his lips. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed ice cream that much.”

Heat floods my face instantly. I go bright red, remembering last night… naked on my bed, smearing cookie dough across my nipples and cock while fantasizing about him. The way I came so hard I saw stars.

Does he know somehow?

Was he watching me before making a deliberate door sound later?

Could he somehow smell it on me this morning even though I showered?

Either way, the very possibility mortifies me.

“I… it’s just really good,” I mumble, staring out the window so he can’t see how crimson my cheeks are. “Triple cookie dough. From Carlo’s.”

Maxim makes a low sound that might be amusement. “I’ll make sure we get some.”

The rest of the drive passes in a strange, charged quiet. I keep replaying the warehouse meeting in my head. Whatever Maxim and my uncle discussed, it felt important. Bigger than just me. And the fact that they brought me along—even if I was sidelined on a dusty couch—makes me wonder if I’m becoming more than just a symbol of the truce.

By the time we pull up to a quiet roadside diner, my embarrassment has cooled to a low simmer.

Maxim orders for both of us without asking… burgers, fries, milkshakes, and yes, a pint of triple-cookie-dough ice cream to go. We eat in the car on the way back, windows down, city slowly reappearing around us.

I steal glances at him while he drives. This man spanked me senseless yesterday, watched a rom-com with me, threw me into a terrifying panic this morning, and is now buying me ice cream like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I have no idea what to do with any of it.

But as I spoon another bite of creamy, chocolate-studded perfection into my mouth, one thing feels certain: Maxim Kovalev is rewriting every expectation I had about him.

The only question is… what next?