Page 10 of Mafia Daddy

Piercing. Cold.

It’s like Maxim is peeling back my skin layer by layer to see what’s underneath. But there’s something else there too, something darker, heavier, almost hungry. It makes my stomach flip in a way I really don’t want to examine right now.

I look away fast, heart kicking against my ribs.

My fingers itch. In my tote bag, zipped safely inside my suitcase in the trunk, is Zoop. My most cherished and loved zebra stuffie.

God, I want him right now.

Just five seconds of burying my face in his worn fur and pretending none of this is happening. But I crush the urge. The absolute last thing I need is to show weakness in front of these men. Especially not Maxim. I’m not giving him ammunition to think I’m some fragile little boy he can break into pieces at will and then put back together in whatever mould he chooses.

Instead, I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, thumb already moving to open my messages to Charles…

MILO: Just made it to the handover. Alive. For now. Call you tomorrow⁠—

Before I can hit send, a hand shoots out like a striking snake. Kobek snatches the phone from my fingers before I can even hit send.

“Hey!” I snap, lunging for it. “What the actual⁠—"

Kobek holds it out of reach, expression flat. “No phones tonight.”

I stomp my foot on the floor of the SUV, the sharp click of my heel echoing. “Give it back, asshole. That’s mine.”

The temperature in the car drops ten degrees.

“Be quiet.” Maxim’s voice is low, calm, and somehow worse than any shout. It slices right through me. My blood runs cold. I freeze, mouth half-open, the protest dying in my throat. Something in his tone tells me this isn’t a suggestion.

This is law.

I cross my legs tightly and angle my whole body away from all of them, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The city blurs past. Rain. Lights. Strangers who have no idea how fucked my night just got.

Truly, this feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

One minute I was teasing some fake Daddy at the club, the next I’m property. Actual property. Traded like a fucking car.

The rest of the ride passes in heavy silence. I don’t look at Maxim again.

When the SUV finally stops, I’m marched inside a sleek downtown building that screams old-world money. Marble lobby. Private elevator that opens straight into the apartment.

No doorman small talk. No waiting.

I’m beginning to see how Maxim Kovalev moves.

The moment we step inside, the scale of the place hits me. It’s… sparse. Deliberate. And actually kind of beautiful in a cold, museum kind of way.

Dark hardwood floors stretch out under high ceilings.

Expensive art hangs on the walls: original oils, moody abstracts, a couple of pieces that look like they belong in a gallery. And for all I know, they might have been stolen from one.

The furniture is minimal: deep leather sofas, a low glass table, a massive fireplace that probably costs more than most people’s rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering skyline and the river beyond.

Everything is immaculate. Controlled. Exactly like the man who lives here.

Maxim bids goodnight to his men at the door. Kobek hands my phone to him—the asshole—and they exchange a few quiet words in Russian.

Then the door clicks shut behind them, and the apartment falls into an eerie, suffocating silence.

I stand in the middle of the living area, arms wrapped around myself, trying not to shiver. Maxim walks over to a sleek sound system built into the wall. A moment later, soft classical music fills the space. Piano and strings, something haunting and beautiful that makes the silence feel even heavier.