Page 43 of Mafia Daddy

His cheeks flush that pretty pink I’m becoming addicted to. He adds the watercolors to the cart and moves on to a display of oversized squishy animals.

I follow, hands in my pockets, watching the way he lights up at each new discovery. The contrast is striking: this bright, playful boy who was handed to me as a political token now bouncing through a toy department like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I pick up a particularly large rainbow-colored squishy unicorn and hand it to him. “This one matches your energy.”

He laughs a real, unguarded sound and hugs it to his chest. “Zoop is going to be jealous.”

The casual mention of his stuffie makes something protective twist inside me. I’ve seen the way he clings to that worn old zebra when he thinks no one’s watching. It’s a vulnerability he guards fiercely, and the fact that he mentions it so easily around me feels like progress.

And with progress, comes trust.

We’re not all the way there yet, but it feels like we’re on the right path.

We continue through the department, the assistant discreetly adding items to the growing pile. Milo debates between two different strategy board games for nearly ten minutes before declaring we need both.

I don’t argue.

Watching Milo’s enthusiasm is worth any price. For the first time in years, I’m not calculating every move through the lens of power or risk.

I’m simply… here. With him.

By the time we’ve exhausted the toy section, the assistant’s cart is overflowing. I hand him my black card and tell him to arrange delivery to the apartment. “Everything. Today if possible.”

The assistant nods quickly, clearly recognizing me even if he’s too professional to show it. “Of course, Mr. Kovalev. It will be taken care of.”

Milo slips his hand back into mine as we walk toward the gold-plated elevators. His fingers feel small and warm against my palm. We step into the crowded elevator with other shoppers—tourists, mothers with children, well-dressed couples—and I pull him closer, my thumb stroking the back of his hand. He leans into me slightly, the top of his head brushing my shoulder.

I haven’t held a boy’s hand like this in public in… I can’t remember how long.

It feels dangerously normal. Domestic. The kind of thing men like me don’t get to keep.

As the elevator descends, surrounded by the quiet chatter of strangers, a rare feeling settles over me. Happiness. Not the sharp satisfaction of a successful deal or the cold thrill of victory in battle, but something softer. Deeper.

I glance down at Milo, who’s quietly examining one of the smaller squishies he kept with him: a little octopus with big, sad eyes. He catches me looking and smiles up at me, shy but genuine.

In that moment, I wonder whether he could truly be more than just a pawn in this game.

The thought should alarm me.

Attachments are weaknesses. I learned that the hard way with Ryan. But Milo isn’t Ryan. He’s fire and defiance wrapped in a true softness. He pushes back. He makes me feel alive in ways I’d almost forgotten were possible.

Could he stand beside me, not just as a symbol of the truce, but as something real?

A partner even?

The idea is tempting. Dangerous. But for the first time, I don’t immediately dismiss it.

The elevator doors open on the ground floor. We step out into the bustling main hall, my hand still firmly holding his. I guide Milo toward the exit, already thinking about the rest of the day.

Lunch somewhere quiet.

Perhaps a stop at one of the boutiques so he can pick out more clothes that suit his new life.

And tonight… tonight I’ll remind the boy exactly who he belongs to in the most pleasurable ways possible.

As we walk out onto the busy sidewalk, Milo squeezes my hand. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I haven’t done something like this in… I don’t even know how long.”

I look down at him, letting a rare, small smile touch my lips. “You don’t need to thank me. This is only the beginning.”