Page 53 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Suddenly I can see it: this apartment transformed slowly around us. Morning coffee. Arguments about marble. Late nights with my work bleeding into his. A life settling accidentally into shared space.

A life I may never stay long enough to live.

Aleksander watches me find the edge of that thought. I lower my eyes before he can read the rest.

“Okay,” I say.

I mean more than the apartment. I’m not sure he doesn’t know it.

16

I KNOW SHE MIGHT LEAVE. (ALEKSANDER)

The Antwerp issue resolves itself faster than expected.

I stand in front of the operations wall while shipping routes update across six separate monitors—bonded transit lines, customs clearances, restoration transfers, private collection movement through Brussels and Geneva.

Three weeks ago the Colombians were quietly buying access through shell brokers and compromised freight handlers.

Now shipments are moving cleanly again. Insurance verification restored, storage access stabilized, authentication channels closed.

Kalinin’s information is working.

Igor watches another manifest clear on-screen. “Well. That’s annoying.”

I glance toward him briefly. “Competence bothers you now?”

“No.” He leans back in the leather chair, coffee balanced against his knee. “Being forced to admire David Kalinin bothers me.”

Fair.

Yuri steps farther into the room, tablet in hand. “The Colombians lost another intermediary in Rotterdam overnight. They’re pulling back from the restoration pipeline entirely.”

“They’ll pivot,” I say.

“Of course. But Kalinin’s intelligence closed most of the vulnerabilities before they could establish permanent access.”

Professional, efficient, useful—exactly what the alliance was supposed to be. And all I can think about is Tamara standing in a cathedral looking like she was walking toward an execution.

Igor catches the silence. “You’re doing it again,” he says.

I look back toward the screens. “Doing what?”

“Thinking emotionally in a room designed for logistics.”

I ignore him.

The Antwerp manifests continue updating across the wall. Forged provenance records. False ownership transfers. Shell acquisitions routed through Luxembourg holding companies.

The entire industry runs on controlled narratives. Authenticity is rarely the truth—it’s the version powerful people agree to certify, backed by enough paperwork to make the story permanent.

I’ve built a career understanding that.

The comparison leaves something bitter in my mouth. Because David Kalinin forged his daughter’s reality the same way.

Carefully, legally, permanently enough that nobody questions it. Her studio, her clients, her reputation, her independence—he let her build an entirely separate life, and still kept the ability to destroy it whenever necessary.

“You hate him now,” Igor says.