Page 104 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

I glance at my watch. “We have twelve minutes.”

“You’re timing us?”

“Yes.”

“As I said. You have zero game, Aleksander Sokolov.”

This time, when she smiles, she doesn’t hide it fast enough. I carry the sight of it like contraband.

We stay fifteen minutes past the hour. Neither of us mentions it.

On the sidewalk, the cold has sharpened. Midtown moves around us in its indifferent rush: taxis, delivery bikes, office workers, tourists spilling from theaters, everyone carrying their own small urgency through the winter dark.

Tamara stands beside me with her coat collar turned up, the envelope from Kalinin inside her bag, her hair loosened by the basement warmth.

My car waits at the curb. The driver steps out, then stops at one glance from me and gets back in.

She turns to me instead of the car.

I want to touch her. Not because of Kalinin. Not because she is hurt. Because she is standing in front of me with city light on her cheek and a smile she has almost forgotten to guard. Because not long ago she said Sasha like it cost her nothing and changed everything in me.

I do not touch her.

I open the car door instead.

26

THERE GOES ANOTHER BRUNELLO (TAMARA)

The car ride home is torture.

Aleksander sits close enough that our thighs press together through silk and dark wool, the heat of him seeping steadily into my skin. One large hand rests loosely against his knee—not touching me, not moving, just there—while Manhattan blurs past the tinted windows in streaks of white and gold.

Every breath feels too loud.

Every heartbeat a countdown.

His jaw is hard, dark eyes fixed forward like concentration alone might save him from whatever this is becoming.

Long fingers flex once against his thigh.

His throat works in a slow swallow.

I should move away.

Put space between us. Remember this is still a forced arrangement, no matter how warm his hand felt at my back tonight. No matter how softly he looked at me in that club. No matter how easy it suddenly felt sitting across from him at the table.

This is dangerous.

Not him.

This.

The wanting.

Because wanting changes things.

And somewhere beneath all of it lives the terrible understanding that if I let myself cross this line, part of me is choosing this life.