Page 9 of Mafia King

Nikolai’s gaze drifts along the length of the bar and stops. Halfway down, on the opposite side, a boy sits alone.

Early twenties, maybe.

The boy’s dark hair shimmers in the light, catching it perfectly. He wears a simple black top that sits neatly against his collarbones, nothing flashy, nothing that screams for attention the way most of the party boys in this city do.

The boy’s posture is quiet, almost demure, one hand curled around a glass of something clear. He is not laughing too loud or leaning into every conversation around him. He simply exists in his own space, sipping slowly, eyes occasionally lifting to the bottles lined up behind the bar.

Sexy, but not trying.

Alone, like him.

Nikolai watches the boy for a few more seconds. Then he catches the bartender’s eye, tilts his chin toward the boy, and holds up one finger.

A fresh shot of vodka is poured and carried the short distance. The bartender sets it down in front of him with a quiet word. The boy looks at the glass, then lifts his gaze and finds Nikolai watching.

Nikolai gives a small nod.

He holds his eyes for a beat, something unreadable flickering there, then lifts the shot, tips it back in one clean motion, and sets the empty glass down without a grimace. No cough. No theatrical shiver. Just a smooth swallow and a faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

Nikolai is impressed. He slides off his stool, leaves a couple of notes on the bar, and walks the short distance. The stools near the boy are empty. He takes the one two places away, close enough to speak without raising his voice, far enough not to crowd the young man.

“Nikolai,” he says simply.

He turns fully toward the boy. Up close his features are sharper, the demure vibe still present but undercut by a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself. His eyes are a clear, assessing grey.

The boy laughs once, soft and surprised, as if the name itself amuses him.

“Theo,” he answers.

Nikolai signals the bartender again. Two more shots appear. Nikolai pushes one toward Theo. They lift the glasses together.

“To the night,” he says.

“To the night,” Nikolai echoes.

They drink. The vodka goes down clean. For the first time since the alley, the residual tension in Nikolai’s shoulders eases.

The dealer, the Rossini family, Maxim’s too good to be true offer—none of it sits at the front of his mind anymore.

The boy is watching him with that same quiet curiosity, and something about the way he holds his gaze makes the rest of the city feel farther away.

Nikolai has a feeling about this boy.

It might be late, but in Nikolai’s world it feels like the night is only just beginning…

4

THEO

Theo finishes the shot, the clean burn settling warm in his chest, and sets the empty glass down with deliberate care.

He meets Nikolai’s eyes for a brief moment, then offers a small, apologetic smile.

“Excuse me a second,” Theo says. “I’ll be right back.”

Nikolai nods, already signaling the bartender for fresh drinks, and Theo slides off the stool.

He keeps his steps steady as he crosses the low-lit floor toward the narrow corridor that leads to the restrooms. The bathroom is quiet, all dark marble and soft lighting, empty for now.