Page 34 of Mafia King

Everything inside his chest tilts at once.

Tracker’s message is still waiting to be answered on his closed laptop: Banking details. Offshore reserves. Crypto.

Serious business. Risky business too.

The clear instruction to strip this man of his money and deliver the information without delay. Theo has spent years treating targets as puzzles to solve and paydays to collect.

Distance was always the rule.

Never get close enough for feelings to matter.

Now he is sitting on a leather couch in Nikolai’s actual home, still wearing the residual marks of his discipline, a butt plug freshly removed, and drinking the exact comfort this dark Daddy chose for him, while he prepares to open the door to the parts of his life he has kept hidden.

The job has just become infinitely more complicated. Theo forces himself to meet his eyes. He keeps his voice steady even though his pulse is racing.

“I’m listening,” he says. “And I’m not scared. Tell me everything…”

But inside, the conflict is already sharpening into something Theo is not sure he can control.

Theo stands alone in the upstairs bathroom, the door closed behind him, both hands braced on the cool edge of the marble sink. The mirror shows him a flushed face, slightly mussed hair, and eyes that still carry the sharp edge of everything he has just heard downstairs.

Nikolai did not use the words Bratva, pakhan, or mafia.

He didn’t need to.

The careful way Nikolai spoke about operating far outside ordinary laws, about the kind of work that required absolute loyalty and left no room for weakness, about enemies who disappeared when they became inconvenient… every sentence painted the picture clearly enough.

Nikolai is Russian mafia, Theo is sure of it. High enough that the city itself rearranges itself around his decisions. Dangerous in a way that makes his previous targets look like soft corporate schlubs and white collar criminals, even if that wasn’t how he saw them at the time.

Theo is in deeper than he has ever been.

The thought settles cold and heavy. Even if he wanted to walk away right now—delete the Tracker messages, abandon the job, disappear—he is no longer certain it would be possible.

Nikolai has brought Theo into his real home. He has already claimed his body more than once. And he is preparing to tell Theo even more.

The exit ramps are closing one by one.

And yet another calculation runs quietly underneath the fear…

This changes the price. Tracker wants banking details, offshore reserves, crypto.

The target is not some mid-level executive with a gambling problem.

This is a high-status, high-risk man whose money is almost certainly protected by layers most people never see.

The danger to Theo is real. And the value of the information is therefore higher.

Theo feels like he can renegotiate. Demand more.

Tracker, or whatever the hell his real name might be, will have little choice but to cave to his demands if they want results. The thought is clinical, professional, the part of him that has always survived by treating every job as a transaction.

Theo turns on the tap, washes his hands slowly, and watches the water run clear. Then he dries them on a thick white towel, draws one steadying breath, and opens the door.

Nikolai is standing directly outside. He is leaning against the opposite wall of the wide landing, arms loosely folded, watching the door as if he expected his exact timing.

Theo’s pulse jumps.

“It’s time for a bath,” Nikolai says, voice calm. “Then bed.”