Page 6 of Mafia King

It’s all on him.

Usually, that’s just perfect for Theo. But right now, Theo would do anything to be able to open up to his friends.

“Get a grip, Theo,” Theo says to himself. “Rule one… never panic.”

The barista places the new coffee down on Theo’s table but he barely notices. Instead, his mind is whirring with thoughts of being paid ‘tenfold’ compared to his other jobs.

“Rule two, every danger presents an opportunity...”

Theo loves his apartment but for some time has wanted to buy his own place. A huge payday would go a long way toward securing the kind of deposit he’d need. And if this new client was to offer more jobs in the future at the same rate, then who knows… he might not need a mortgage at all.

“Rule three… let them underestimate you, let them think they’re in control while you run the whole damn operation.”

With that, Theo opens his laptop and begins to type a response to his new client.

They may know his name, but they’ve got no idea who Theo Rice is and what he is truly capable of…

3

NIKOLAI

Nikolai stands with his back against the cold brick wall of the alley, the night air sharp with the scent of rain-slicked asphalt and distant exhaust. Streetlights from the main road barely reach this far down the side street, leaving most of the scene in deep shadow broken only by the occasional flicker of a dying neon sign from a shuttered storefront.

He watches without moving as his two street soldiers work the dealer over with methodical precision. The man is already on his knees, blood streaming from a split lip and a swelling eye.

One soldier—Viktor, solid and silent—drives a fist into the dealer’s ribs again, the impact wet and heavy. The second, younger and quicker, circles and lands a boot to the side of the man’s thigh, forcing a choked grunt out of him.

The dealer’s hands are bound behind his back with thick zip ties; his jacket hangs open, revealing the cheap gold chain around his neck and the empty pockets that had held nothing more than a few crumpled bills and a handful of product sachets stamped with a mark that does not belong on Nikolai’s streets.

Xander leans against the opposite wall, arms folded, dark eyes tracking every movement.

He says nothing.

He does not need to.

Nikolai already knows the report: the dealer had been moving product for three nights in a row along the edge of the west-side territory, bold enough to set up near one of the warehouses Nikolai’s men use for storage.

Word had reached Xander by midnight.

By one-thirty the man was in the back of an unmarked van. Now it is nearly two, and the city has gone quiet enough that the only sounds are the impacts of fists and the dealer’s labored breathing.

Nikolai steps forward at last. The soldiers pause immediately, stepping back to give him space. He looks down at the kneeling man...

Mid-thirties, thinning hair, a face that has taken beatings before and will not take many more. The dealer lifts his head with difficulty, one eye already closing, and spits a mix of blood and saliva onto the ground near Nikolai’s polished shoes.

“You know whose streets these are,” Nikolai says, voice low and even.

No raised tone. No theatrics. Just the quiet certainty of a man who has had this conversation more times than he can count. “You know the rules. You sell here, you answer to me. Or you do not sell here at all.”

The dealer’s remaining good eye focuses on him.

Recognition flickers… everyone in this part of the city knows the face of Nikolai Chekov even if they have never stood this close.

Fear should follow.

Instead the man manages a crooked, bloody grin…

“I work for the Rossini family,” he rasps. “They pay better. They protect better. You think your little Russian kingdom means shit to them? I will never back down. Never. You can beat me until the sun comes up and I still walk these streets tomorrow. All you’ll do a is bring a war to your doorstep. A war against a larger, more powerful family. Think about it, asshole.”