Page 7 of Mafia Daddy

He exhales through his nose. “The deal itself is solid. Paolo has already moved two of his crews out of our new territory as a show of faith. Paperwork is ready for midnight signature. But the boy…” He pauses, choosing his words. “Milo Pirlo-Lentini. Twenty-three. Wild. As we know, social media full of club photos, gallery openings, fast cars. He dropped out of Harvard. Doesn’t exactly live in the shadows, let’s put it that way. That could become a liability if he keeps drawing eyes.”

I lean back against the leather, letting the city lights streak across the tinted windows. Skyscrapers give way to older brick warehouses as we head toward the industrial edge of the city. Streetlamps flicker past like cosmic stars.

“I will handle him personally,” I say. My voice carries no room for debate. “He becomes my responsibility. I will keep the boy close, calm him down, and fold him into the family. He will learn what loyalty means under the Kovalev roof.”

Kobek shifts beside me. “We could ship him straight upstate to the compound after the handover. Keep him isolated until he settles. Safer that way.”

I allow myself a small, cold smile. “It is a good idea. But not yet. First I break the boy down. Piece by piece. He must understand exactly where his new loyalties lie before he gets any breathing room. A caged bird that still thinks it can fly is more dangerous than one that has never known the sky.”

The car falls quiet for a moment.

Outside, the streets narrow. We pass shuttered factories, chain-link fences topped with razor wire, and the occasional lone figure hunched against the night.

Rain begins to spit against the windshield, blurring the red and white lights of the few cars still moving. The wipers move in steady rhythm, almost hypnotic.

I watch the city I have bled for slide past and feel the familiar weight of command settle on my shoulders.

This truce is necessary. But necessity and trust are not the same thing. The Lentini family might be operating differently these days, but that means little in reality. Everything they’re showing us now could be a façade. It could be a long game, ready to lure the whole underworld into a false sense of security.

I need to be prepared for anything.

Twenty minutes later the SUV slows. The private airfield appears ahead: high fences, a single lit hangar, and the faint outline of an old control tower against the clouded sky. Our driver kills the headlights as we roll around to the rear access road. The second vehicle peels off to take up position in the shadows.

We stop.

“It’s go time,” I say.

“Go time,” both Michael and Kobek echo in return.

We’ve been in this position together many times in the past. We know how one another works, and what signs to look for. If anything is suspicious, we’ll be able to communicate together well enough.

Or at least I hope we will.

I button my coat and step out into the damp night. The air smells of jet fuel, wet concrete, and distant saltwater. Michael and Kobek flank me again as we walk across the cracked tarmac. My shoes make soft, deliberate sounds. Ahead, headlights cut through the darkness… three black SUVs in a loose V formation. Lentini men.

Paolo Lentini steps forward from the center vehicle. He is shorter than me but carries himself with the quiet authority of a man who has already survived two assassination attempts this year. Silver at his temples, immaculate charcoal suit, his eyes like chipped obsidian.

“Maxim,” he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm, dry. “The papers are in order. Our people have already begun the withdrawal from the eastern blocks. Tonight we draw a new line.”

I shake his hand once. “A fair line, Paolo. One we will both honor. The Kovalev family keeps its word.”

He nods. “As does the Lentini family. This boy… my nephew… he is blood. Treat him with respect and he will bring no trouble. A gift of the highest order, but one that must be honored.”

“Of course,” I reply.

Respect is earned, I think, but I do not say it. Instead I incline my head. “He will be under my direct protection. No harm will come to Milo while he remains loyal.”

A side door of the middle SUV opens. A broad-shouldered Lentini enforcer steps out first, then reaches back inside. A slender figure emerges.

Milo.

The moment I see the boy, something inside my chest shifts… like a blade being drawn half an inch from its sheath.

Milo is smaller than the photos suggested, but the camera never captured the electricity he carries. Chestnut hair falls in loose across his brow, catching the headlights in streaks of warm brown and gold. Dark eyes, full lips pressed into a defiant line. He wears a cropped black leather jacket over a silk shirt that clings to his body, tight jeans, and a pair of jet-black Converse low-tops on the tarmac. Even in the middle of a midnight mafia handover he looks like he just stepped out of a downtown club… beautiful, expensive, and entirely out of place.

The enforcer puts a hand on Milo’s lower back to guide him forward.

Milo twists away from his touch with a sharp glare. “Touch me again and I’ll make sure my uncle feeds your balls to the harbor seals,” he snaps, voice low but carrying.