Page 8 of Mafia Daddy

The enforcer’s jaw tightens, but he drops his hand.

A flicker of heat ignites low in my gut. Not just desire—though that is there, sharp and immediate—but something deeper.

Recognition.

Fire.

This boy is no meek bargaining chip. He is a live wire wrapped in designer clothes, and every instinct I possess tells me he will burn anyone who underestimates him.

I keep my face impassive as he walks toward us. His gaze lifts and locks with mine for the first time. For half a second the world narrows to just the two of us—predator and new prey measuring each other across ten feet of wet asphalt.

Milo’s chin lifts a fraction…

Defiance. Curiosity. Fear buried so deep only someone like me would notice it.

Michael steps forward with the leather folder containing the final agreement. Paolo and I sign in silence under the glow of a single portable light.

Two copies. Two signatures. The deal is sealed.

Paolo gestures toward Milo. “He is yours now, Kovalev. Honor the truce and we will have peace.”

I nod once. Then I turn to the boy.

“Milo,” I say, my voice controlled and calm, not giving anything away.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he folds his arms, studying me like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve. Up close he smells faintly of expensive perfume, and the faintest trace of something sweeter. His eyes flick over the tattoos I know are partially hidden beneath my collar, then back to my face.

I extend my hand. “You will ride with me.”

For a moment I think he might refuse just to test me. But he exhales through his nose, rolls his eyes, and steps past me toward our waiting Escalade without taking my hand.

The sway of Milo’s hips is pure attitude. My men open the door for him. He slides in without another word, back straight, jaw set.

Trouble is the word that comes to mind.

I follow the boy into the SUV. Michael and Kobek climb in after us. The doors close and the engine purrs to life.

As we pull away from the airfield, rain streaks the windows, falling heavier now. Milo sits directly across from me, arms still folded, scowling like I personally murdered his childhood pet.

I am tempted to speak, to lay down the first rule right here and now, but I hold back.

I’ll let Milo crack first. Let him feel the weight of this silence and understand that I am in no hurry.

Michael and Kobek are already on their phones, murmuring low commands in Russian and English—confirming the territorial handovers, reassigning crews, locking down the night’s security rotations. Their voices are background static. My focus remains locked on the sexy but sassy boy in front of me.

Milo shifts in his seat, crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. Another dramatic eyeroll, this one slower, more provocative. The corner of my mouth twitches. Polar opposite doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My mind drifts to the last time I allowed a young man this close.

Ryan.

Sweet Ryan with his soft voice and willing submission. He used to wait for me in silk boxers, eyes down, ready to kneel the moment I walked through the door. For a brief season I let myself believe we could make it work—that a man like me could have something gentle in his life. Then one night outside the 666 Dice casino I lingered too long in the lobby shaking hands with politicians.

A single silenced shot.

That was all it took…

Ryan was gone before his body hit the pavement.