Page 12 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

He leaves quickly after that.

She looks at me over the rim of her glass. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

She recovers fast. Too fast. I file that away too. A woman who expected to be handled, not seen.

Across the room, Igor gives me the smallest lift of his chin. A check-in. Everything under control.

It is.

Mostly.

The music shifts into a slower, softer beat. Tamara catches it the same moment I do.

“We have to dance now, don’t we?” she asks.

“Technically, no.”

But I set my glass down and offer my hand regardless. She considers it long enough to make refusal feel possible. Then she places hers in mine.

Her fingers are cool, her grip precise. I guide her onto the floor. Around us, conversations continue with slightly too much effort. Tamara notices the change and adjusts before the first step.

“You’re very aware of everyone watching you,” she murmurs as we begin to move.

“I was raised that way.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Her palm rests lightly against my shoulder. Mine settles at her waist, leaving space between us on purpose.

Her fingers ease against my jacket.

“You’re not holding me very tightly,” she says after a moment.

“That’s deliberate.”

“You always this controlled?”

“Yes.”

After that, she stays silent. Just studies me like I’m a problem she’s deciding whether to solve.

She moves well. Balanced, like someone who learned long ago that composure could become armor.

I recognize the technique. I invented a version of it myself.

“You hate this,” I say quietly.

She lifts her chin. “My father handed me over in a church full of men who frisk people for a living,” she says softly. “I’m trying very hard not to sulk.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. She has just described the evening better than anyone in this room would dare.

“You’re doing remarkably well,” I say.

Her laugh is quiet and bitter. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”