Page 167 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Longer this time. No answer.

His thumb moves with controlled irritation. Another contact. This one answers. Relief touches his expression so briefly it almost looks painful.

“Viktor,” he says. “I need confirmation that the Rotterdam authorization remains accessible.”

A pause follows.

My father’s fingers tighten around the phone.

“Which counsel?”

I look toward the framed photograph on the wall. He is standing beside a museum director in Geneva. Both of them smiling. Both of them pretending the room was about art.

His voice drops further. “Who instructed the hold?”

The answer reaches him. I don’t need to hear the name.

Sokolov.

Volkov.

Orlov.

Some door I don’t know about and don’t need to know about.

Papa lowers the phone without saying goodbye, and the office seems to contract around him.

I uncross my legs and stand. “That sounded expensive.”

His expression sharpens. “Sit down.”

I walk to the side table without answering. The crystal decanter is in its usual spot, beside two heavy glasses and a silver tray. I pour water into a glass.

My father watches every movement.

I take a sip.

His voice turns soft. “What are you doing?”

“Having a meeting with my father. As ordered.”

“Stop behaving like a child.”

I set the glass down with care. “Go ahead. Make the call.”

He understands before he wants to.

I turn back toward the desk. “Call whoever fixes exposure for you.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Customs. The attorney. The clerk with the nephew who owes money. Rotterdam. Bellweather. Whoever still owes you enough to pick up.”

He gives me nothing.

“Call them. I’ll wait.”

He stands. Slowly. Every inch of it is meant to remind me of height, age, authority, every room where I learned to go quiet before I learned to read.