Page 71 of Mafia Daddy

I hug the teddy bear tighter, rocking again, the Little in me desperate for comfort while the Lentini blood in my veins whispers that I should find a weapon, that I should fight if it comes to that.

But right now all I can do is wait.

And pray.

Please, Daddy. I need you.

The stockroom door explodes open with a bang that makes me scream. I scramble backward, heart in my throat, until Michael’s familiar sharp features appear in the doorway. He’s breathing hard, suit jacket torn at the shoulder, a fresh graze bleeding across his cheek.

“Rooftop,” Michael snaps. “Now. Helicopter’s waiting. Move, Milo.”

I push to my feet, legs numb. “Maxim? Where is he? Is he…”

“He’s fine,” Michael cuts in, already grabbing my arm and steering me out into the corridor. “Occupied downstairs, but breathing. We don’t have time for questions. Keep up.”

Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost buckle. He’s alive. My Daddy is alive!

I cling to that single fact like a lifeline as we sprint down the service hallway toward the emergency stairwell that leads to the roof. My blood-stained sweater clings to my skin. Every step echoes too loudly in my ears.

We burst through the rooftop door into cold night air. The helipad lights flood the space in harsh white. Wind whips my hair across my face. And there, standing near the edge of the pad, is Maxim.

He’s holding Paolo by the back of his collar like a disobedient dog.

My uncle looks broken. His once-immaculate charcoal suit is ripped and soaked with blood. One arm hangs useless at his side, clearly dislocated. His face is swollen, lip split, and his gun is nowhere in sight.

For the first time in my life, Paolo Lentini looks small.

Maxim’s eyes find mine instantly. That piercing gaze softens a fraction when he sees me, but his grip on Paolo never wavers.

“Milo,” Maxim says, voice carrying over the wind. “It’s over.”

I walk forward on shaky legs until I’m only a few feet away. Michael stays close behind me, tense and ready.

Maxim gives Paolo a rough shake. “Your uncle is finished. His men are dead or scattered. The cartel deal is dead with him. I can end this right now…” His voice drops, calm and deadly. “Or, if you wish it, I will spare his life. He will be put on a plane to Italy tonight. Exiled. No power, no soldiers, nothing but a quiet villa and the rest of his days to rot in shame. The choice is yours, malysh.”

I stare at Paolo.

The man who took me from my bed in the middle of the night and traded me like cargo. The man who modernized the family after my father’s death. The man I once called uncle.

Memories flood me—Papa’s laugh on the Amalfi Coast, his warm hand in mine, the shouting I overheard that night in the study.

My chest tightens until I can barely breathe.

I look Paolo dead in the eyes. “Did you kill my father?”

Paolo’s swollen lips twist into something almost pleading. “No, Milo. I swear on my mother’s grave. It was the Russians. Old rivals. I loved my brother!”

The lie barely leaves his mouth before his good hand darts down. In one lightning movement he yanks a slim knife from an ankle sheath and slashes viciously at Maxim’s thigh.

Maxim roars in pain but doesn’t let go. Blood blooms dark across his trousers. Paolo twists like a cornered animal, stabbing again. The two of them crash together in a brutal tangle, rolling dangerously close to the roof’s edge.

“No!” I scream.

Michael’s arm locks around my waist, hauling me back. “Stay here!”

I fight him like a wild thing… elbows thrusting, pure panic. “Let me go! That’s my Daddy!”

The struggle carries them nearer the low parapet. Maxim lands a savage punch that snaps Paolo’s head back, but my uncle drives the knife toward Maxim’s ribs. They grapple, feet slipping on the wet rooftop, only inches from a deadly drop.