Page 141 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Maya marks the framing with blue tape. Mikhail holds the roll while she tears pieces off with quick, efficient movements.

“You’re crooked,” she tells him, a little irritated.

He looks down at himself and raises an eyebrow. “I’ve never received that particular complaint.”

Her hand halts midair. “The tape, Mikhail.”

“Obviously,” he says, entirely unrepentant.

The correction itself takes less than half an hour to resolve. The rest of the visit stretches around samples, lighting questions, and Malcolm’s wounded dignity. An hour and a half later, we step into the elevator. As the doors close, I look down at my hands again.

Still steady.

Maya notices. She says nothing until we reach the lobby.

Outside, the cold air catches in my lungs. Mikhail walks ahead, scanning the sidewalk.

Maya falls into step beside me. “He’s terrifying, you know.”

“Yep.”

Mikhail opens the SUV door. “Are you talking about me?”

Maya hands him the sample bag. “Keep dreaming, pretty boy.”

His eyebrow lifts. For once, he seems to have no immediate answer.

I slide into the car, and Maya follows. Mikhail gets in last, setting the bag beside his feet as the driver pulls away from the curb.

“We’re going to Aleksander’s?” Maya asks once we’re back in the SUV.

“Yes. The first delivery should already be there.”

Mikhail glances at his phone. “It arrived eight minutes early.”

By the time we reach the penthouse, the freight elevator is open and two delivery workers are carrying a rolled rug into the living room. One of Aleksander’s men stands near the hallway with a clipboard. Another watches the service entrance.

Mikhail takes the clipboard without being asked.

Maya steps past him. “Living room first. Guest room pieces stay wrapped until I check the fabric.”

The severe side tables go to storage. The gray rug is rolled and carried out. Two warmer chairs arrive wrapped in muslin. A darker wood table follows. Lamps with linen shades. A bench for the entry. Fabric samples for the guest room Maya insists on calling “stage two,” even though we both know I started planning it before I admitted I had.

Maya directs the workers. Mikhail checks names against the sheet, asks which elevator they used, and signs for the deliveries. For once, the apartment looks less like a room waiting for someone to come back and more like a room people might eventually live in.

Mikhail’s attention goes to the empty wall above the fireplace. I wonder what Elena was to him.

“The painting is coming back,” I say.

“I know.”

The installation takes just under two hours. The workers remove packing, adjust chair glides, carry the old pieces to storage, and leave behind the low buzz of a room newly disturbed. Maya photographs each placement. Mikhail checks the freight elevator twice.

By the time the last worker leaves, the apartment looks unfinished, but less untouchable.

Above the fireplace, the wall waits. Some absences should be allowed to breathe before anyone tries to solve them.

Maya stands in the middle of the room, hands on her hips. “It’s much better.”