Page 73 of Mafia Daddy

Maxim is alive.

I tilt my face up, eyes blurry with tears, and whisper the only words that feel right.

“I love you, Daddy.”

Maxim’s arms tighten around me. His lips brush my forehead, soft and reverent.

“I love you too, malysh. More than you know.”

The helicopter carries us into the night, and I let myself cry until there are no tears left… cradled in the arms of the most dangerous, most gentle man I’ve ever known.

23

MILO

Morning light filters through the heavy curtains of Maxim’s bedroom, soft and golden, painting everything in gentle warmth.

For one terrifying heartbeat I wake up alone. The sheets beside me are cool. My heart slams against my ribs as I bolt upright, clutching the duvet to my chest.

It was a dream.

Paolo, the rooftop, the gunshot…none of it happened.

Maxim is gone. I only imagined he won.

Panic claws up my throat. I scramble out of bed, wearing nothing but one of his oversized black t-shirts, and stumble toward the living area on bare feet.

Then I see him.

Maxim sits at the chessboard near the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in sunlight, an espresso cup steaming beside his elbow. He’s shirtless, wearing only low-slung silky pajama bottoms. Maxim’s dark hair is tousled from sleep, silver threads catching the light. He’s studying the board with that intense focus I love, fingers absently turning a white knight between them.

Relief crashes over me so hard my knees nearly buckle.

He’s real. He’s here. It wasn’t all a dream.

We made it.

I pad across the hardwood floor, heart still racing but for an entirely different reason now. Maxim looks up the moment I’m close, and that slow, devastating smile curves his lips… the one he saves only for me.

“Good morning, Milo.”

I don’t answer with words. I climb straight into his lap, straddling him, and kiss him like I’ll never get another chance. He tastes like espresso and I love it. His big hands slide under the t-shirt to cup my bare ass, pulling me closer as he deepens the kiss. A low, approving growl vibrates in his chest.

When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his, breathing him in.

“I thought…” My voice cracks. “For a second I thought last night was a dream. That you weren’t here.”

“I’m right here,” Maxim murmurs, brushing my messy hair back from my face. “And I’m not going anywhere. Daddy will always be close by.”

I settle more comfortably on his lap, arms looped around his neck. The city sparkles far below us, peaceful in the morning light, as if it has no idea what kind of war ended on a rooftop just hours ago.

Maxim’s thumb strokes my cheek. “Are you sad about Paolo?”

I think about it for a long moment, searching my heart. There’s grief there—complicated, heavy grief—but not the kind he means.

“I’m sad he betrayed my father,” I say quietly. “I’m sad he was willing to betray you too. To use me as a pawn and then throw me away the second it suited him. That’s what hurts. Not that he’s gone. That’s good.”

“And I’m glad my mother is okay,” I say.