Page 165 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

The scent reaches me as soon as the elevator doors open, and I am ten years old again, sitting in the corner of my father’s office with a sketchbook on my knees while men with soft voices discuss customs inspections and insurance values around me.

Back then, I thought the quiet meant safety. Now I understand it meant everyone in the room had already learned where to place their fear.

Mikhail steps out beside me, tall and careless in a black overcoat, sunglasses pushed into his hair despite the winter gloom outside. Two of Aleksander’s men remain by the elevator. They wear suits cut well enough to pass as bankers, though nobody watching them would make that mistake twice.

The receptionist looks up from her desk and goes pale.

“Mrs. Sokolov,” she says.

The name lands cleaner today than it did the first time.

“My father is expecting me.”

“Yes, of course.” Her gaze moves to Mikhail. “Can I get you coffee while you wait?”

Mikhail lowers himself into the chair beside the entrance with the ease of a man settling in for theater. “My therapist says I should reduce caffeine.”

The receptionist blinks.

“Too twitchy,” he adds.

Her fingers tighten around her pen. She looks down at her calendar as if it might save her.

I open the door to my father’s office without knocking. He stands behind his desk, ready for me.

Navy suit. Silver hair combed back. Hands extended with careful warmth, as if he expects the receptionist to glance through the glass and see a father receiving his beloved daughter.

“Tamara.”

“Father.”

I take the chair opposite his desk without stepping close enough for him to touch me. His hands remain open before he lowers them.

I watch him read me. No red eyes. No shaking hands. No daughter who has spent the morning crying herself hollow and come here ready to trade dignity for scraps.

The disappointment is subtle.

It is also immediate.

He sits. “You’ve grown theatrical.”

“I’ve grown busy.”

His mouth tightens. Outside the office, I can feel Mikhail without hearing him. A quiet fact at my back.

My father folds his hands over the folder on his desk. “Then I will not waste your time.”

“That would be new.”

The first flash of irritation crosses his face. It vanishes almost at once, tucked beneath manners.

“I asked you here because you and your husband have created a dangerous situation.”

I cross one leg over the other and remove my gloves finger by finger. “Have we?”

He expected outrage. Denial. A demand.

I give him none of it.