Page 36 of Mafia King

11

NIKOLAI

Nikolai carries Theo into the guest bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall. The room is quiet and simply furnished: soft grey walls, a wide bed made up with clean white sheets and a heavy quilt, a single lamp casting warm light from the bedside table.

He has never used this room for anyone before Theo.

Tonight it feels necessary.

The boy is still soft and pliant from the bath, wrapped in the large towel, his skin warm against Nikolai’s chest.

Nikolai sets Theo down carefully on the edge of the mattress and unwraps the towel. Theo’s body is clean, marked in places only he can see, the residual flush of his earlier orgasm still visible across his cheeks and chest. Nikolai pulls back the covers, guides him under them, and draws the quilt up to the boy’s shoulders.

The platinum bracelet remains absent from Theo’s wrist; they will pick it up sooner rather than later, Nikolai decrees.

Theo looks up at him, grey eyes still slightly unfocused, the Little headspace lingering in the way he waits for what comes next.

Nikolai sits on the side of the bed…

“When I was a boy,” Nikolai begins, voice low, “I used to run the streets at night. Late, after everyone else had gone inside. I pretended I was a dragon. I would race down the alleys and across the empty lots, breathing deadly flames at every man who had ever wronged my family. I burned them all in my head. Every debt collector, every rival, every face that had looked at my father with contempt. The flames were perfect. No one escaped.”

Theo’s mouth curves into a small smile. He listens without interrupting, the quilt tucked under his chin.

Nikolai continues, letting a dry edge of humor color the memory...

“When I finally came home, covered in dirt and pretending my scales were still smoking, my mother would open the door, look at me, and say, ‘The Little Dragon has returned.’ Then he would march me upstairs, tuck me into bed exactly like this, and sing until I fell asleep. He had a terrible voice. Off-key every time. But it worked.”

Theo’s smile deepens. The expression is soft, unguarded. Something in Nikolai’s chest tightens at the sight of it.

Nikolai does not speak again for a moment. Instead he begins to sing… low, rough, the same simple Russian lullaby his mother used all those years ago.

The melody is imperfect. He has never claimed to have a good voice. But Nikolai keeps the rhythm steady and quiet, one hand resting lightly on the quilt over Theo’s shoulder. His eyelids grow heavier with each verse. By the final lines Theo’s breathing has slowed into the even pattern of approaching sleep.

Nikolai leans down and presses a brief kiss to Theo’s forehead.

“Sleep all night,” he tells the boy. “Do not get out of bed. Daddy’s orders.”

Theo makes a small sound of acknowledgment, already half gone. Nikolai waits until Theo’s eyes close fully, then rises, switches off the lamp, and steps out into the hallway. The door shuts with a soft, final click.

Downstairs, the house feels larger and quieter. Nikolai walks through the dimly lit rooms to the kitchen, the same space where he had given the boy hot milk only a short while earlier. He takes his phone from his pocket and types a short message to Xander…

NIKOLAI: Full deep dive on Theo. Everything. No limits. I want it all.

Nikolai sends it, sets the phone on the counter, and pours a generous measure of vodka into a heavy glass. The first swallow burns clean. He carries the glass to the leather couch and sits, the same place where he had begun to open the door to his real life for Theo.

The city outside is dark.

Somewhere across it the Rossini family continues to push product onto streets that belong to him.

Somewhere else Maxim Kovalev is weighing the cost of the alliance Nikolai offered—and the price of refusing it.

Nikolai turns the glass slowly in his hand. He hopes Maxim agrees. The conditions are clear: help erase the Rossinis completely, and the west-side border becomes stable, the northern harbor opens, the constant low-level bleeding of territory stops.

If Maxim declines, the calculation changes.

Nikolai will still move against the Rossinis. He has no choice. But he will also have to treat Maxim as a future enemy rather than a possible ally.

Two fronts. A fight that will not end until one side is gone entirely.