Page 89 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Despite everything, that makes me smile.

The drive to my father’s office takes less than twenty minutes and feels longer than the entire past week.

Kalinin Fine Art occupies three floors of a narrow limestone building off Madison, discreet enough to look old-money legitimate and expensive enough that no one asks why freight manifests and private customs brokers pass through a company that pretends to care mostly about provenance, restoration, and museum-quality logistics.

I’ve been coming here since I was a child, sitting in the corner of Papa’s office doing homework while men in beautiful suits discussed shipping, insurance, storage, and things I knew not to hear.

Even then, I understood that art was never only art.

The receptionist recognizes me immediately, but her smile falters when she spots Mikhail.

“Mrs. Sokolov, your father is expecting you.” The name is so new it still feels borrowed. “Mr. Kalinin requested a private meeting,” she adds, taking in Mikhail.

Mikhail smiles. It’s such a pleasant smile that even I would not trust it.

“Perfect,” he says easily. “I’ll wait privately outside the door.”

The receptionist hesitates. “I’m afraid⁠—”

“No, you’re not.” He says it lightly. That makes it worse.

One of Papa’s men steps forward from near the corridor. I know him by sight, not name. Mid-forties. Dark suit. Thick wrists. The kind of man who thinks silence is a personality.

“This is family business,” he says.

Mikhail turns his head slowly.

“We are family,” he says. “And I’ll wait here.”

The man’s eyes narrow. Mikhail’s smile does not move.

The office door opens before the standoff can become anything more interesting. Papa appears in the doorway.

He’s in a navy suit, silver hair brushed back, expression composed into the mild disappointment he has used on me since childhood. It always looked paternal from a distance. Up close, it’s calculation wearing a father’s face.

“Tamara.”

“Papa.”

His gaze moves to Mikhail. “Mikhail Sokolov. I didn’t realize you had become a chauffeur.”

“I’m branching out.”

A faint smile touches my father’s mouth. Then he turns back to me. “Come in, Tamara.”

His office is exactly as it always has been. Dark wood. Pale rug. Bronze sculpture near the windows. A twenty-thousand-dollar Cy Twombly canvas on the wall that I have found irritating since I was fourteen. The smell of leather, paper, and the faint mineral scent of old stone from some artifact waiting to be authenticated.

He gestures toward the chair across from his desk. I sit and cross one leg over the other.

Papa observes this with mild interest.

“Marriage suits you.”

“Does it?”

“You seem calmer.”

“That may be the sleep deprivation.”