Page 9 of Mafia Daddy

I buried him the next day and made a vow in the cold rain: never again.

No attachments. No weakness. The family comes first. Always.

Milo is nothing like Ryan, that much is obvious. Where Ryan was quiet waters, this boy is a storm. He provokes without saying a word. And that flicker I felt on the tarmac? It’s still burning.

I let the silence stretch another full minute before I speak, my voice low and calm.

“We can sit in silence for the rest of the journey if you prefer.”

The boy’s sardonic gaze snaps to mine, dark eyes flashing.

“But when we get home,” I continue, holding his stare, “we will most definitely be talking. That is a promise.”

Milo doesn’t reply. Instead his jaw tightens and he turns back to the window, pretending the passing city lights are more interesting than me. But I catch the slight tremble in his fingers where they rest on his thigh.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let the boy wonder what that conversation will cost him…

The SUV glides deeper into the night, rain drumming steadily on the roof. Michael and Kobek continue their calls, oblivious to the charged air between their Pakhan and his new… acquisition.

I lean back, studying the delicate line of Milo’s profile, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than before. He thinks this is the worst night of his life.

Milo has no idea how thoroughly I intend to change his mind.

Let the games begin.

4

MILO

The inside of the Escalade feels like a rolling coffin… black leather, tinted windows, and the low hum of the engine cutting through the rain.

I’m not a fan.

I shift in my seat and look around, trying to get a read on the three men who now technically own me. Or so they think.

Maxim’s two generals—or whatever the hell they are—sit like they belong here. The older one, Kobek his name is, taps away on his phone with the calm efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

The other guy, they call him Michael, murmurs into his own cell in a clipped, Yale-polished voice, confirming something about “territorial markers” and “overnight crews.”

They’re both respectful around Maxim, sure, but comfortable too. No nervous fidgeting. No ass-kissing. These aren’t random soldiers. They were right there at the airfield with my uncle, standing like they mattered.

Close allies. Inner circle.

Great…

I’ve been handed over to the Bratva equivalent of a boardroom power trio.

I turn my face to the window and stare out into the streaking city lights. We’re moving fast now, the SUV carving through the night like it owns every street. I catch a glimpse of the illuminated cables of the State View bridge up ahead. That means we’re heading toward the upscale riverfront neighborhoods on the west side: old money mixed with new, but not the flashy, glass-tower bullshit of Downtown Heights where half the wannabe gangsters park their Lamborghinis and throw money at bottle service.

At least Maxim isn’t some tacky show-off. Small mercies.

I risk a quick glance across at him.

His eyes are already on me…