Page 7 of Mafia King

Nikolai studies him for a long moment. The offer of salvation had been genuine, in its own way. A chance to walk away with a warning and a permanent memory of what happens when you trespass.

Most men take it.

Some beg.

A few try to bargain.

This one chooses defiance and names the Rossini family as if the name itself is armor.

Xander shifts his weight slightly.

Nikolai feels the quiet question in the movement. He answers it by reaching into the inner pocket of his long coat. The weight of the pistol is familiar, the grip worn smooth from years of use. He draws it without hurry, checks the chamber with a practiced thumb, and levels the barrel at the center of the dealer’s forehead.

The two soldiers step further back.

The dealer’s grin falters for the first time.

“Last chance,” Nikolai says. “You can still live. Walk away. Tell the Rossini family their product stays off my territory. Or you can die here and become a message.”

The man spits again, the sound pained but defiant.

“Fuck you, Chekov. The Rossinis own this city. You are just a temporary problem.”

Nikolai’s finger tightens. The shot is clean, a single sharp crack that echoes briefly between the brick walls and is swallowed by the night. The dealer’s head snaps back. He collapses sideways onto the wet concrete, the zip ties still binding his wrists, blood pooling dark and fast beneath him.

Silence settles for three full seconds.

Then Nikolai lowers the gun, flicks the safety on, and returns it to his pocket.

“Dispose of the body on Rossini territory,” Nikolai tells the soldiers. “Make it clear. Leave him somewhere they will find him before morning. No fingerprints, no cameras. You know the routes.”

Viktor and the younger man nod once. They move without hesitation, already unfolding a heavy plastic sheet from the bag one of them carries.

Nikolai turns away before the first scrape of the body against the ground reaches his ears. Xander falls into step beside him as they walk the short distance back to the mouth of the alley.

The black SUV idles at the curb, engine low and steady. Xander opens the driver’s door; Nikolai slides into the passenger seat. The doors close with a solid thunk that seals the night out.

Nikolai settles back, rolling his shoulders once to release the residual tension. Xander pulls away from the curb, tires whispering over the damp road. Neither speaks until they have put three blocks between themselves and the alley.

The city slides past in streaks of light and shadowed storefronts.

“Rossini product on our side of the line,” Xander says eventually. “Not the first time this month.”

“No,” Nikolai answers. He watches the streetlights pass. “And not the last, if we keep answering with warnings alone.”

Xander takes a left, heading toward the quieter stretch of the city where the bars stay open late and the clientele knows how to mind its own business. “Maxim’s offer is still on the table. West side locked down. Border agreement. Room to push north if we want it. It would go a long way to making the Rossini clan fall back.”

Nikolai lets Xander’s words hang. The same pros and cons they had turned over the night before circle again in his mind…

Trust or trap.

Alliance or eventual war.

Maxim Kovalev is not a man who makes offers lightly, and the Rossini men circling the edges only make the decision heavier. Peace has never lasted long in this city…

Treaties fray.

Borders shift.