Page 59 of Mafia King

Theo slips the tiny pistol into the specially sewn pocket inside his sock, feels its negligible weight settle against his ankle, and looks up at the man who has claimed him completely.

Theo knows they are headed toward a climax. Tracker, the Rossinis, the trap that is almost certainly waiting—him and Nikolai will meet it together.

The fear remains, sharp and real, but it no longer stands alone.

Belonging stands beside fear, and for the first Theo realizes that it might just be the perfect combination.

Later that evening the townhouse is quiet and dimly lit. Theo stands in front of the wide mirror in Nikolai’s bedroom, the soft overhead light casting a clean glow across the glass.

Theo has changed into a plain black t-shirt that sits close to his body, dark jeans that allow easy movement, and a pair of well-worn black Converse. The outfit is deliberately ordinary, nothing that draws the eye, nothing that restricts him if he needs to run or fight. He studies his reflection for a long moment, then draws a slow, deliberate breath.

“I’ve got this,” Theo says to himself. “I’ve got this.”

The tiny custom pistol already rests flat against his ankle inside his right sock, its negligible weight a constant, reassuring pressure.

Theo feels ready.

All that remains is the final set of coordinates from Tracker.

The bedroom door opens quietly. Nikolai steps inside and crosses the room without a word. His arms slide around Theo from behind, pulling him back against the solid wall of his chest.

Theo leans into the embrace, covering his forearms with his hands. For a few seconds they simply stand there, watching their joined reflection in the mirror.

“I’ll do you proud,” Theo says, voice steady.

Nikolai’s mouth brushes the side of his neck, the kiss warm and lingering. “I’m already proud of you.”

The soft press of Nikolai’s lips against his skin sends a low current of arousal through him, unexpected and sharp even in the middle of the tension.

Theo’s eyes flutter half-closed for a heartbeat.

Then the sharp ping of an incoming encrypted message cuts through the quiet.

Both of them turn at once.

Theo crosses to the laptop open on the dresser and reads the short message that has appeared:

Coordinates.

A time.

A location on the industrial edge of the city—exactly the kind of isolated ground that can be turned into a killing field with the right preparation.

Nikolai is already moving.

“We leave now,” Nikolai says. “This is our time. This is our city. Now we show it.”

They take the stairs quickly. Theo grabs the car keys from the console table in the hallway while Nikolai checks the pistol at his hip one final time.

Outside, the night air is cool and clear.

Theo slides into the driver’s seat of the black town car without discussion; Nikolai takes the passenger side so he can begin contacting his men the moment the doors close.

Theo pulls away from the curb and guides the car through the quiet residential streets, then out onto the faster roads that lead toward the industrial district.

As the familiar rhythm of driving settles over Theo, the earlier edges of fear begin to recede. His military training returns in clean, practiced layers: breath control first, then the deliberate slowing of his heart rate, then the narrowing of focus until the only things that matter are the road ahead, the weight of the gun against his ankle, and the mission parameters already forming in his mind.

Tracker is waiting.