Page 33 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Too many moving parts. Too many people pretending loyalty is permanent.

“They’ve stopped making noise,” I say. “That worries me more.”

“They lost three handlers after The Velvet Echo hit,” Yakov says. “Quiet may mean they’re licking wounds.”

“No.” I slide another photo across the table. “Quiet means they’re buying people.”

Igor studies the image, a port official shaking hands with a man we’ve had tagged for two weeks. Colombian-adjacent. Not leadership, but close enough to matter.

“Their people are approaching customs,” I continue. “Shipping clerks. Night supervisors. Anyone who can reroute a container without creating a record before morning.”

“They want the corridors,” Igor says.

“They want the paperwork,” I correct. “Corridors are useless if every crate gets inspected twice.”

Yakov leans back. “They’re moving drugs?”

“Not primarily.”

Street product is noisy. Messy. Addictive in ways that destabilize everyone near it. The real money travels quietly.

Art. Antiquities. Watches. Jewelry. Sanctioned assets moved through private collections and clean invoices. A painting can carry eight figures across an ocean without anyone blinking, as long as the paperwork smiles politely.

The Colombians figured that out. Now they want in.

Igor turns one of the photos toward himself. “They intercepted the Antwerp manifest?”

“Attempted to. Kalinin’s people caught the irregularity before the container left port.”

My father-in-law is useful. That doesn’t make him trustworthy.

His logistics network is the reason we agreed to this arrangement. Restoration houses in Prague and Vienna. Bonded storage near Rotterdam. Export documentation that passes through customs like Holy Writ. The man built an empire out of making objects disappear politely.

With him, our movement becomes cleaner. Without him, we bleed time and money at every border.

Igor caps his pen. “So the marriage did what it was supposed to do.”

I think of Tamara in my kitchen wearing my shirt, trying not to care that I ate every bite of her disaster dinner. Of the way she said her business was the only thing she built without her father’s help, like she was daring me to take that too.

Of the fear under all that fury.

“She looked terrified walking down that aisle,” I say.

Igor’s gaze lifts to mine. Yakov stills. Neither man jokes.

“She was obviously forced,” Igor says.

“Yes.”

Igor studies me across the table. “What did she tell you?”

“Nothing.”

Yakov’s expression shifts. “You think Kalinin has leverage?”

“I know he does.”

Before Igor can answer, the conference room door opens and David Kalinin walks in without knocking.