Page 1 of Mafia Daddy

1

MAXIM

The night draws closer as I pace the living area of my downtown apartment. Outside, the city’s gleaming skyline begins to light up before my eyes as they sky above darkens and brings with it a sense of foreboding.

I’ve been here before.

Not just once, but many times.

Somehow though, this time feels different.

I might be in my forties now, but I still feel my senses come alive when I’m waiting for news of a peace deal. Maybe I should be numb to this kind of thing. Maybe I’m pretending to care more than I do. Or perhaps the fact that I still feel that surge of nervous energy shows why I have been able to rise to the rank of Pakhan…

And stay there too.

It wasn’t like I was born to become a general either. The Kovalev family have always been around the Bratva underworld, whether it was back in the home country or here in the US. But our story was always one of spies, thieves, street hustlers, and lower ranked generals. My father’s dream, like so many others, was that I would become an accountant or lawyer for the bosses. He saw that I was good in school, that I had a different kind of mind.

But my father never once foresaw that I could become a leader.

However, the way I rose through the ranks, assisted by a touch of deadly fate along the way, left no one in any doubt that this would be my destiny. From a street soldier to assassin, and then a rapid ascend to Pakhan, I’ve made the most of all the opportunities that have come my way.

In the end, I didn’t even graduate high school.

But I didn’t need to. Everything I learned was on the streets or listening to the old generals discuss matters of politics, life and death, and delicate negotiations as they sipped espresso or downed shots of vodka, depending on the time of day or night.

Now when people heart the name Maxim Kovalev, they know that the time for playing is over. My associates can trust that I am loyal, logical, and can spot a rat coming from three blocks away.

My enemies? They know that once a line is crossed, there is no going back. I take disloyalty personally, and I will spare no man or woman the ultimate punishment if they act against the business. It is the only way that this life of ours can work.

Доверие.

Вера.

Преданность.

These three words are tattooed across the nape of my neck. Written in my mother tongue, they ground me but they also serve as a warning to others…

Trust.

Faith.

Loyalty.

Three seemingly simple words can decide whether a man lives or dies, whether he can work for me, or whether our relationship will end with one of our bodies dumped off the great western bridge.

The deadline for this agreement was set to midnight. I can only hope that the answer is delivered before then. Because if it is not, I will have no option but to notify my lieutenants—and they will not need any further instructions at this stage.

My men know what I expect of them.

They know that when I call a strike, it is to be delivered in the most ruthless and cold-hearted fashion that the mind can conjure. I don’t relish violence. Far from it, in fact. I would far rather work to negotiate solutions that are satisfactory to all parties involved.

But if violence is required, then my reputation proceeds me.

I will deliver violence and do so remorselessly.

“Still time,” I mutter to myself as I check my understated vintage Rolex before proceeding to walk through my living area, down the corridor, and toward the apartment’s large bathroom over on the east wing.

The marble floor is smooth and immaculately polished underfoot as I walk, my eyes flitting back and forth between the old paintings that hang on the corridor walls. Aside from one or two trinkets from the old world, the furniture in my home is sparse.