Page 25 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“You’re thinking about it, though.”

I don’t deny it quickly enough.

He stops playing the idiot. “Whatever Kalinin used to make her obey,” he says quietly, “it’s probably bad.”

He is right, which is inconvenient enough to irritate me.

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

He shrugs. “Based on how terrified she looked walking toward you, it wasn’t small.”

I can handle anger. Defiance, too. Fear is harder to put down.

David Kalinin put his daughter in a cathedral looking like she was heading toward an execution. She doesn’t trust me enough to tell me why.

Mikhail heads for the elevator, then pauses.

“Oh, and for the record?” he adds, because he enjoys pressing where he shouldn’t. “You’re already too invested.”

The doors close before I answer.

The car is warm when I slide into the back seat behind Yuri. Rain streaks across the windows as we pull into Manhattan traffic. Igor’s message waits on the screen; I leave it unopened.

She wrapped both hands around the mug this morning and looked furious that she needed anything from me.

I know what it is to be kept alive against your will.

After Elena died, I stopped caring whether I survived. Igor dragged me back from that hell one withdrawal at a time. It kept me alive. It also taught me exactly how it feels when your choices stop belonging to you.

This morning, Tamara asked about work carefully, like she was negotiating for permission instead of talking about her own life.

I called a delay caution because it sounded better than fear.

“Boss?” Yuri glances at me in the rearview mirror. “You’ve been staring at your phone for ten minutes.”

I look down. Igor’s message is still unopened. Instead, I pull up Tamara’s portfolio.

Mikhail, annoyingly, had been right.

Penthouses. Private residences. Boutique hospitality projects.

I zoom in on one—a library in a Tribeca townhouse. Books actually used instead of color-coordinated for display. Lamps positioned beside chairs someone would realistically sit in for hours. The room feels lived in without sacrificing elegance.

Every detail says the same thing: She pays attention. Not to status. To people.

She’s talented, and I treated that talent like a scheduling complication.

I close the portfolio. Then open it again.

“Change of plans,” I say finally. “Take me to Volkov Enterprises first.”

Yuri changes course without comment.

Volkov Enterprises rises through the rain twenty minutes later—all glass and steel arrogance. The receptionist waves me through without announcement.

Family privilege.

I take the private elevator directly to the executive floor.