Page 32 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“You can answer that.”

“It can wait.”

“What if it’s important?”

He hands me a plate. “Right now I’m here.”

The phone keeps buzzing. He keeps working.

I could ask him. The thought is so dangerous I nearly drop a pan. He has resources. Reach. He already suspects my father forced me to agree to this marriage with leverage. Maybe he could help me find Mark.

I crush the thought immediately. Not yet. I still don’t know what Aleksander Sokolov does with information once he has it.

The dishwasher hums to life, taking the last practical reason for us to stay side by side.

“I should go to bed,” I say eventually.

“Probably.”

He notices my mouth; I notice him noticing. The dishwasher keeps humming like an idiot.

I think about last night. About lying beside him aware of every inch of distance he deliberately maintained. About cedar and smoke lingering faintly in the sheets long after he moved away.

About how much easier this would be if he were cruel.

“Tamara.” He says my name like he is reminding himself of a rule. “That shirt is not helping.”

The words take a second to translate.

I grip the cuff. “I’ll give it back.”

“Don’t.” He doesn’t give himself time to lie. “I like it on you.”

Then he’s gone, just turns and walks out of the kitchen like he didn’t say anything catastrophic at all.

I stand there after he leaves, still wearing the thing he told me not to give back.

The problem with Aleksander Sokolov is not what he takes. It’s what he waits for. When one of these boundaries finally breaks, I’m beginning to suspect it will be because I cross it first.

10

THE ROTTERDAM PROBLEM. (ALEKSANDER)

“Two days married, and you still look homicidal.” Igor doesn’t look up from the security reports spread across the conference table.

I flip to the next surveillance photo. “That’s your opening?”

“I’m being delicate.” He marks something on the map with a red pen. “If I weren’t, I’d ask why you don’t look like a man enjoying his honeymoon.”

“Ask, and I’ll make you regret being observant.”

Across the table, Yakov snorts into his coffee.

I ignore it and tap the first photo. “Newark. Tuesday night. Same bonded warehouse where Vasiliy’s shipment was delayed last month.”

Igor sets the pen down. Good. I prefer business.

The map in front of us covers half the conference table—ports, warehouse corridors, customs checkpoints, transfer yards. Red marks for confirmed Colombian movement. Black for ours. Blue for Kalinin’s network, newly integrated and still too clean for my taste.