Page 185 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

He faces forward again. “Fine. Send whomever you want.”

But his voice has changed. Aleksander lets that stand. Which means he has filed away everything.

Mikhail stays silent after that. Yuri changes lanes. After a minute, Mikhail reaches for his phone, looks at the dark screen, and puts it face down on his knee.

I smile into my latte and decide, generously, not to say a word.

Anna’s house sits at the end of a quiet street, white clapboard and dark shutters, with a yard built for children to burn through birthday-cake energy without destroying the house. Balloons are tied to the mailbox. Blue streamers twist around the porch railing. Somewhere behind the house, a child shrieks with such pure joy that Mikhail flinches.

Yuri parks behind Anna’s car. Another vehicle waits farther down the street, discreet, unless you know exactly how Sokolov protection breathes.

Anna insisted on that.

Aleksander agreed.

That, more than anything, is how I knew we might all survive this.

The front door opens before we reach the porch. Anna stands there in jeans and a white blouse, hair clipped back, cheeks flushed from party management. She looks tired. Happy. Slightly sticky, which I suspect has something to do with frosting.

“Thank God,” she says. “He’s asked six times.”

My chest tightens. “About the telescope?”

“About you.”

Mikhail lifts the gift bag. “I bring tribute.”

Anna points at him. “Do I need to review it first?”

“You wound me.” Mikhail has the audacity to look offended.

“I’ve met you.”

A blur of dark hair appears behind Anna. Ivan stops at her side, one hand gripping the edge of the doorframe, cheeks pink, birthday crown crooked over his forehead. He has frosting on one sleeve and suspicion in his eyes until he sees the box in Aleksander’s hands.

Then suspicion loses.

“You came,” he says to me.

“You invited me, and I said I’d come.”

“Yeah, but adults say things.”

Behind me, Aleksander makes a small sound that might be pain.

I crouch so Ivan doesn’t have to look up at me. “Happy birthday, Ivan.”

He studies me for one serious second, then lets me hug him. Exactly two seconds. Maybe three. Then he pulls back and points to the box. “Is that it?”

“It might be.”

“What is it?”

“It’s bigger than a book.”

“Is it fragile?”

“Yes.”