Page 29 of Mafia King

Nikolai watches the street slide past. “Not yet. But put a man on Theo today. Distance only. I want to know where he goes and who he meets. Nothing more for now.”

Xander nods once. He makes a short call on his phone, gives the necessary details in clipped Russian, then ends it.

“Done,” Xander says. “For what it’s worth, I’m happy to see you… dating.”

“Dating!” Nikolai laughs. “Don’t even go there. You know that’s not how we live.

“True,” Xander replies. “Well, whatever it is, I’m happy for you.”

“Don’t go getting sentimental on me,” Nikolai snarls, half-serious, half-joking.

“As if,” Xander fires back. “I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I have…”

The rest of the drive crosses from the cleaner commercial streets into the older part of the city where the restaurants know how to keep private rooms private.

Xander parks in a narrow alley behind a low brick building with no signage on the rear entrance. Two of Maxim’s men are already waiting, but they step aside the moment they see Nikolai.

Inside, the private dining room is quiet and dimly lit. Heavy curtains block the street view. A long table is set for four, though only two places are occupied when Nikolai and Xander enter.

Maxim Kovalev rises from his chair with the same measured calm he showed the night they first discussed territory over vodka. He is a few years older than Nikolai, grey beginning to show at the temples, the lines around his eyes earned the hard way.

“Nikolai,” Maxim says, extending a hand. “Punctual as ever.”

“Maxim.” Nikolai takes the hand, the grip firm on both sides. “I appreciate you making the time.”

They sit. Xander remains standing near the door, a silent presence.

A waiter appears, pours mineral water, and disappears again. No menus. The meal will come when it comes, or not at all. This is not a lunch. It is a negotiation that happens to include food.

They exchange the expected pleasantries first—mutual acquaintances, the recent quiet along certain borders, the weather.

Nikolai lets the ritual play out. Rushing a man like Maxim only signals weakness. When the water glasses are half empty, Nikolai sets his down and leans forward slightly…

“I would like to progress the talks we began,” Nikolai says. “With a view to entering into an agreement on the west side and the border terms we discussed.”

Maxim’s expression does not change. He waits.

“There is a condition,” Nikolai continues. “I want your help taking down the Rossini clan. Not a warning. Not a temporary push-back. I want them wiped out entirely. Their product, their people, their money routes. Gone.”

Silence settles over the table. Maxim shows almost no emotion, only the faintest narrowing of his eyes as he turns the request over. Maxim has built his own territory the same way Nikolai built his… by removing problems rather than managing them indefinitely. He understands exactly what is being asked.

“This is a matter that will require some consideration and thought,” Maxim says at last. His voice remains even. “The Rossinis are not a small inconvenience. Moving against them at that scale carries consequences for everyone who shares a border with their operations.”

Nikolai holds his gaze. “My offer will not remain on the table forever. I need to deal with the Rossini family. I will do it with you or without you. But if I do it without you, then who knows what could happen next along the lines we have been discussing.”

The tension between them thickens.

Two pakhans measuring the cost of alliance against the cost of refusal. Xander shifts his weight near the door, the only outward sign that the air has changed.

The tension eases only when the door opens again and a young man steps inside. Milo is young, early twenties by the looks of it, dressed simply but expensively. He moves with the quiet confidence of someone who has long since stopped being impressed by dangerous men.

“Milo,” Maxim says. “A delight as always.”

Maxim’s entire posture softens a fraction as the boy approaches. He rises, kisses his cheek, and introduces him with a formality that still carries genuine warmth.

Nikolai stands as well, offers a polite greeting, and watches the small, automatic ways Maxim and Milo orient toward each other—the brief touch of fingers, the shared glance that needs no words.

Something settled and real exists between Maxim and Milo, built in the middle of the same world of knives and territory that Nikolai has never tried to share with anyone.