Page 22 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“I cook.”

I would have preferred incompetence. Incompetence would have been restful.

“That explains why you scare me.”

Aleksander’s mouth almost moves. “That’s the reason?”

He pours coffee into a mug and slides it toward me. I wrap both hands around it because holding something is better than throwing something.

“You read physical newspapers,” I say when I spot the folded Times beside him. “That feels medically concerning.”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

The problem isn’t his danger. It’s how often I forget to be afraid of it.

“You slept?” he asks.

I stare at him. “You are deeply unsettling.”

“I’ve been told.”

For three seconds, the kitchen almost behaves like a kitchen instead of a holding cell.

Mark.

Eight years old, somewhere in this city, eating breakfast at someone else’s table.

Don’t lose focus.

I set the coffee down carefully.

“I need to go to work today.”

Aleksander’s attention leaves the newspaper completely. “That’s not possible.”

“What?”

“The Colombians are pushing into our territory. They know the Kalinins aligned with us yesterday.”

“And?”

“You’re leverage now.”

I push back from the island. “So I got sold to a bratva king and turned into a hostage in the same week. Fantastic. Love the pacing on this.”

“You’re leverage,” he says. “I’m trying to keep that from becoming hostage.”

He says it like weather. Temporary. Unpleasant. Out of his hands.

“You can’t stop me from leaving.”

He doesn’t answer right away. That is answer enough. “Your father gave you a reason to agree to this marriage. What does he have over you?”

I grip the edge of the island before my face can give me away.

“It’s none of your business.”

He absorbs the refusal. I wait for the pressure, the reminder that he holds all the cards in this room.