Page 61 of Mafia King

Nikolai and Xander are pressed into the deep shadow of a loading bay less than twenty meters from the warehouse’s side entrance. The concrete is cold against Nikolai’s shoulder. From this angle he has a clear line of sight to the open stretch of cracked asphalt where Theo stands alone, hands visible, posture carefully non-threatening.

The tiny pistol is still hidden in Theo’s sock, and Nikolai allows himself a private chuckle as he recalls his shock at how good he was at the gun range.

If he wasn’t my boy I’d hire him as an assassin…

Further back, Maxim and his chosen men occupy a second set of shadows, equally still, equally ready.

Xander’s voice is barely a breath. “Anything you need from me?”

Nikolai keeps his eyes on Theo. “If I go down, you take the family. You rule it with an iron fist. No hesitation, no soft edges.”

Xander is silent for a second. Then…

“I’ll do it. But I know it won’t come to that.”

They clasp hands once—brief, hard, the mutual respect of two men who have already buried too many of their own. The contact lasts only a heartbeat before both return their attention to the warehouse.

A dark sedan turns the corner and rolls to a stop directly beside Theo. The rear door opens. Before the boy can step back, two pairs of hands yank him inside. The door slams.

“Fuck!” Nikolai roars. “Go-go-go!”

Nikolai and Xander move at the same instant. Their first shots are precise and low—both front tires, then the rear. The sedan lurches and settles hard on its rims.

Maxim’s men materialize from the deeper dark, weapons up, forming a tightening ring around the disabled vehicle.

Nikolai’s voice cuts across the lot, cold and carrying. “Release the boy. Now.”

A man’s voice answers from inside the car, calm and almost conversational. “I want safe passage out of here. Guarantee it and he’s yours.”

“Agreed,” Nikolai calls back.

“Don’t fuck me around,” the voice hollers. “I’ll kill this motherfucking boy. I’ll do it. I’m just a damn accountant, just like him. I make moves. I take the money. That’s all. I didn’t ask for this shit. Take the boy. Let me fucking run.”

“I said I agreed,” Nikolai growls. “Release Theo!”

The rear door opens again. Theo is pushed out hard enough that he stumbles, a black suitcase tumbling after him. He hits the ground, rolls, and comes up in a low crouch just as a second wave of vehicles… Rossini cars, no question… screams into the lot from two directions at once.

The night explodes into gunfire.

Muzzle flashes strobe across the concrete. Nikolai drops behind the nearest cover and returns fire in controlled pairs.

In the chaos he sees Theo move with sudden, lethal clarity…

Nikolai watches as the tiny pistol is already in Theo’s hand. He puts two rounds through the open rear window of the sedan; the man who had spoken—Tracker, or whoever wore the name—jerks as blood splatters onto the windscreen and windows.

Then Theos seizes the suitcase, drags it with him, and takes cover behind a concrete barrier. For one fractured second Nikolai wonders if Theo will simply run—money in hand, every reason to disappear.

Nikolai would not entirely blame Theo.

But his boy does not run.

Instead Theo rises just high enough to brace the little pistol and begins firing on the Rossini gunmen with the same clean speed and accuracy he showed at the range.

Each shot is deliberate.

One attacker drops.

Another spins and falls.