Page 35 of Mafia Daddy

11

MAXIM

The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city far below the windows.

I’m not complaining. I like it like it. Especially in a moment like this…

I sit at the small antique table in my office, the one positioned so the afternoon light falls perfectly across the chessboard. My phone rests beside the board, screen glowing with a high-difficulty engine match.

I move the pieces on the physical board by hand… black marble and ivory-white opposite carved by a master in Moscow years ago. There is something satisfying about feeling the weight of each piece, hearing the soft click as it settles onto its new square. Apps are useful, but they lack soul.

Chess has always been my way of seeing the endgame when business grows complicated. Every move on this board mirrors the city: pawns sacrificed for position, knights leaping over obstacles, queens exerting pressure from a distance.

Right now the cartel threatens my flanks, the Lentini alliance is still untested, and Milo… Milo is a wild card in the center of the board.

He’s dangerous.

Captivating.

Totally impossible to ignore.

I advance my knight, taking the engine’s pawn. The phone chimes softly in acknowledgment. My mind drifts as I study the new position.

Ras Shevchenko.

The name brings a rare flicker of warmth and pain at the same time. He was already a retired senior boss when I was still a hungry street soldier clawing my way up. Most men in his position would have ignored a young hothead like me.

Ras didn’t. He saw something—potential, maybe stupidity worth shaping—and took me under his wing. For years he was the closest thing I had to a father after my own died young. We played chess in the park every Sunday we could, rain or shine. He taught me strategy, patience, and the cold truth that emotions get men killed.

I lean back in the chair and let the memory pull me under.

MANY YEARS AGO…

The park was its usual windswept scene. Pigeons scattered as Ras set up the board on our usual bench, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate with the pieces. He was in his late sixties then, silver hair still thick, eyes sharp as broken glass. I was twenty-four, full of fire and freshly blooded from my first major hit.

The game was close—closer than usual.

I had developed my pieces aggressively, controlling the center, threatening his king with a strong bishop and knight coordination. For once I thought I might actually beat him.

Ras studied the board for a long minute, then moved his queen with quiet certainty. “Check.”

I frowned, scanning for escape routes. None. I moved my king. He countered immediately. Three moves later the trap closed.

“Checkmate,” he said softly.

I slammed my fist on the bench, nearly knocking pieces to the ground. “How? I had you!”

Ras leaned back, unperturbed. He lit a cigarette and took a slow drag.

“In a moment of defeat, Maxim, is sometimes the best time to strike for final victory against your enemy. Your rage blinds you. You stop seeing the whole board. Keep your emotions in check. Always. The man who masters himself masters everything.”

His words sank in. I could see it then, the way my frustration had made me miss the obvious counterplay. I exhaled, nodded, and started resetting the board for another game.

That was when the shot cracked through the peaceful afternoon.

Ras’s white shirt bloomed red across his chest. He looked down, almost surprised, then collapsed sideways onto the bench.

Blood soaked the wood.