Page 37 of Mafia King

A fight to the death on every street that matters.

The vodka settles warmer in his chest. Upstairs a young man he is already claiming more deeply than he planned sleeps under his roof, under his orders, after hearing a story he has never told anyone else.

Nikolai has just ordered a complete accounting of Theo’s past. The two facts sit side by side without easy reconciliation. He drinks again and stares at the dark windows…

The Little Dragon grew up.

The flames are no longer imaginary.

And the night, as always, still belongs to him…

A flash of instinct courses through his brain and Nikolai wakes in the dark without knowing why…

One moment he is under the heavy covers of his own bed, the next his eyes are open and every muscle is already tight.

The room is silent.

The thick curtains block the streetlights.

No floorboard has creaked. No alarm has sounded.

Yet something in the house has shifted, an almost imperceptible change in the air that his body recognizes before his mind can name it.

He lies still and listens. Nothing.

The townhouse is layered with the best security money and careful planning can buy: reinforced doors, motion sensors that never sleep, cameras that feed to a private network that his security monitors even at this hour.

Still, Nikolai knows better than most that a pakhan has been killed in his sleep before. Locks and cameras only slow the determined.

Instinct has kept Nikolai alive longer than any system. He reaches to the antique mahogany cabinet beside the bed. The pistol is exactly where he left it, heavy and familiar. He checks the chamber by feel alone—locked and loaded—then swings his legs out from under the covers.

Black silk shorts are the only thing Nikolai wears. The night air cools his bare chest and shoulders as he moves.

Gun held low and ready, Nikolai steps into the hallway. The long gallery is empty. Soft runner under his feet, no movement at either end. He pauses outside the guest-room door and studies the thin line of darkness beneath it...

The door is shut. No light spills out.

If Theo had risen and switched on a lamp he would have heard the click, seen the glow. He gambles that he is still asleep and continues past.

The staircase curves downward in a wide, elegant spiral. Nikolai takes each step with deliberate care, weight balanced, the pistol extended ahead of him in a steady two-handed grip.

At the bottom he clears the kitchen first: empty counters, the faint residual scent of coffee and chocolate milk from earlier, nothing out of place. Then he turns toward the living room.

A shadow moves across the far wall.

Nikolai’s finger tightens on the trigger.

He edges forward, ready to fire on sight, ready to kill.

The figure is small, careful, moving with the quiet of someone who does not want to be heard.

What the fuck.

I can’t believe it…

His.

Relief hits only when the shape turns and the familiar outline of Theo’s bare shoulders and dark hair becomes clear in the dim light from the windows. Nikolai lowers the muzzle a fraction.