Page 36 of Mafia Daddy

Screams erupted all around us: mothers grabbing children, people diving for cover.

I already had my pistol out, scanning rooftops, trees, every shadow. My heart thundered in my ears.

“Ras!” I dropped to my knees beside him, pressing my hands over the wound. Blood bubbled between my fingers. His eyes met mine, calm even then.

“Never… lose control…” he rasped.

Another shot whizzed past my head. I returned fire blindly toward a distant tree line, but the shooter was a ghost.

By the time my men arrived, Ras was gone.

The park had emptied. Just me, the dead mentor who had shaped me, and the metallic smell of blood on a sunny afternoon.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

And I knew I would need to heed my fallen mentor’s words, or it wouldn’t be long before I was the one lying dead on the hard ground beneath.

PRESENT DAY…

I blink back to the present. My hand is steady as I move my rook, putting the engine in serious trouble. The phone thinks for several seconds before responding. I reach for the glass of vodka on the table and raise it toward the empty chair across from me.

“To you, old man,” I murmur. “Wherever you are, I hope the board is always interesting.”

The vodka burns clean down my throat. I set the glass down just as a soft knock sounds on the office door.

“Come in.”

The door opens and Milo steps inside. He’s wearing soft grey lounge pants and a simple white t-shirt, his chestnut hair looking as effervescent as ever. The boy looks fresh from a shower, cheeks still slightly pink. The sight of him in my space—hesitant but curious—does dangerous things to my focus. One minute I’m honoring the man who taught me control, the next I’m fighting the urge to pull the boy across my lap again for entirely different reasons.

Milo hovers near the doorway, eyes flicking to the chessboard. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… heard you in here and wondered what you were doing.”

I gesture to the empty chair opposite me. “Sit. I’m playing chess. Helps me think.”

Milo approaches slowly, studying the board with open interest. He pulls out the chair and lowers himself into it, crossing his legs.

“Against yourself?” Milo asks, nodding at the phone and the physical pieces.

“Against a strong engine. I prefer the real board. It feels more… honest.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, studying the position. A strand of hair falls across his face. I resist the impulse to tuck it behind his ear. Instead I take another sip of vodka and watch him.

“You play?” I ask.

“A little. My dad taught me when I was young. Before…” He trails off, then shrugs. “I was never very good at it. Too impatient.”

I smile faintly. “Impatience is a common flaw. Ras, my mentor, used to beat it out of me one game at a time.”

His dark eyes lift to mine, curious now. “Ras?”

I nod. “He was like a father to me after mine died. Taught me almost everything worth knowing about this life. Strategy. Patience. Control.” My gaze drifts back to the board. “He died right after checkmating me in the park one afternoon. Sniper shot, he barely knew what hit him. Never found the shooter.”

Milo’s expression softens. For a moment the bratty, defiant boy disappears and something gentler emerges. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”

“It was a long time ago.” I move my bishop, pressing the attack on the engine. “But I still play every time the situation gets complicated. The board doesn’t lie. It shows you the consequences of every choice.”

Milo watches me make the move, then surprises me by reaching out and touching the edge of the board lightly. “And what does the board say about right now? About… us? The truce? The cartel?”

Bold question. I like that he asks it directly. The boy is no wallflower, that’s for sure.