Page 49 of Mafia Daddy

Hope.

I think it’s possible I might actually be okay with wherever this road leads.

As long as Maxim keeps being my big spoon when I need him to be.

I snuggle closer, press a tiny kiss to his chest through his shirt, and let myself drift back to sleep with a smile still playing on my lips.

Maybe I can be the wolf Maxim never knew he needed.

15

MAXIM

Wait, where the hell?

Did I…?

Oh, yeah, I did…

Once my confusion passes and I fully wake up with a stiff neck, the distinct realization that blanket forts are not designed for men of my size moves very much to the forefront of my thoughts.

The fairy lights are still glowing softly overhead, casting a gentle haze across the pile of pillows and squishies. Milo is curled against my chest like he belongs there, his breathing slow and even, one hand fisted in my shirt. Zoop is wedged between us, his worn little face pressed against my sternum.

The whole scene is so absurdly domestic that I almost smile despite the damn crick in my neck.

Carefully, I shift my shoulders, trying to work out the knot without waking the boy. Sleeping in a Little’s den is apparently not super comfortable for a Pakhan in his forties, but I wouldn’t trade last night for anything. The way he’d asked so sweetly to stay in here, the trust in his eyes when I agreed to be the big spoon… it did dangerous things to the walls I’ve spent years building.

Milo stirs, blinking up at me sleepily. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice husky with sleep. “You stayed.”

“I did.” I brush a strand of hair from his face. “Though my neck might disagree with that decision.”

Milo giggles softly and presses a kiss to my jaw. The simple affection hits me harder than it should. I help him out of the den, both of us stretching and groaning like we’ve aged ten years overnight.

We move to the kitchen together, the morning light streaming through the big windows. I make coffee while he pours cereal and cuts fresh fruit.

It feels… normal.

Peaceful.

The kind of morning I never thought I’d have.

We eat at the counter, shoulders brushing. Milo chatters about the new board games and how he wants to try the watercolor set later.

Everything seems good. Milo is relaxed, smiling, stealing bites of my toast when he thinks I’m not looking. I watch him over the rim of my coffee cup and feel that unfamiliar warmth settle in my chest again.

But as I take another sip, my mind flashes back to yesterday in the park.

That kiss.

The way the world had narrowed to just his mouth on mine, his body pressed close… and then the sharp, instinctive warning that had sliced through the moment.

Could it really have been that someone was watching us? And not the usual low-level surveillance I’m accustomed to, the kind that comes with being who I am.

This felt different. Ominous. Targeted.

I’m used to feeling paranoid. It’s part of the life. Every shadow, every stranger on the street, every unfamiliar car could be a threat. I’ve survived this long because I listen to that instinct. But yesterday’s feeling lingers like a bad taste.

The cartel?