Page 10 of Mafia King

Theo steps into the nearest cubicle, locks the door, and lets out a slow breath.

He can handle his drink—always has been able to ever since his military training—but this is not the night to test the edges.

A first meeting with the target... losing control is not an option.

Theo rests his palms on the cool partition for a moment, grounding himself, then reaches into the inner pocket of his small bag and draws out the burner phone.

The screen lights up with a single contact.

He types quickly...

THEO: Met the target. Location as agreed. Progress made. Will report back with more as and when appropriate.

The reply arrives almost at once.

TRACKER: Good. Now ingratiate yourself. This is only the first meeting of many. You follow my plays.

Theo’s thumbs move without hesitation. In a fit of pique, he lets his fingers do the talking…

THEO: I’m a professional. I know how to do this. You came to me, so you obviously know I get results. I’ll work my way in. Once the target is on board, you can give me instruction on what you need me to extract. Until then, I’m running this.

Theo powers the phone down, slides it back into the hidden pocket, and unlocks the cubicle door.

At the sink he runs cold water over his wrists, then lifts his gaze to the mirror.

A sly smile curves Theo’s mouth…

Giving Nikolai his real name had been a calculated risk. But Tracker already knew it, and if his identity is public knowledge in certain circles, there is no point pretending otherwise tonight.

Once this job is finished he will simply become someone else again.

He always does. Theo is just a name. It might be his real name, but that doesn’t mean it always has to be. And with the money on the table with this job, Theo knows that sooner rather than later he can be anyone he damn well chooses to be.

Theo dries his hands, smooths a loose strand of hair, and steps back out into the corridor.

The bar’s low murmur returns as he walks toward the stools. Nikolai is still there, two fresh shots waiting. He looks up as he approaches, and he takes the seat beside him again, closer this time.

“So, you didn’t take the chance to run out on me?” Theo teases, smiling.

“I did not,” Nikolai replies, seemingly warming to his hint of self-depreciating sass.

Nikolai talks while they drink. His voice is low, measured, the same quiet authority he heard when he first introduced himself.

Theo listens as Nikolai tells him about a dream—owning a small cabin upstate one day. Somewhere quiet. Trees. A lake. The kind of place a man could disappear to when the city becomes too loud.

It is a charming story, delivered with just enough wistfulness to sound sincere. Theo listens, tilting his head, offering soft nods at the right moments.

But inside, he smells the lie.

This man does not dream small.

The cut of his coat, the easy way he ordered the best vodka without glancing at the price, the controlled stillness in his posture—all of it points to money and power far beyond a modest lakeside retreat.

Theo can tell that Nikolai could buy a whole stretch of cabins if he wanted. Still, he plays along…

“That sounds perfect,” he says, letting a quiet warmth color his voice. “Just dreamy in fact. I’d love to go out on a boat with you and then come home to a cozy cabin. Just the two of us. No noise. No city.”

Something shifts in Nikolai’s expression: pleasure, approval, a flicker of interest that deepens the intensity in his eyes.