Page 56 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“I care about ensuring you still have a future once this is over.”

Fury turns from red hot to white.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if I handed you the child immediately, you would take him and run.”

The bluntness of it steals my breath.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.” He stays maddeningly even. “You have money. A successful business. American citizenship. No emotional attachment to this life.” He doesn’t even blink. “You would disappear before the marriage has time to stabilize.”

For one clean second, I understand why people break things.

“So this was never about protecting me.”

“Of course it was. But protection requires permanence.”

I feel suddenly sick. “Permanence,” I repeat, the word vile in my mouth.

“You’re married now. Eventually there will be another child. Roots. Responsibilities. Time.” His voice softens slightly. “Then emotions become more complicated.”

The meaning is instantly clear. He wants me trapped deeply enough that leaving becomes impossible.

“Bullshit.” My voice shakes now. “I should go to the police.”

This time my father actually sighs. Not worried. Disappointed.

“As if the police could untangle what men like Aleksander Sokolov and I are involved in.” He knows exactly where to put that reminder. “I’ll contact you when arrangements can be made.”

“Papa—”

The word escapes. Old instinct. Old desperation. I hate myself for it immediately.

His voice softens at the other end of the line. Most people would mistake it for kindness. I know better.

“Be patient a little longer, solnyshko.”

Then the line goes dead.

I stare at my phone long after the call ends. The endearment sits on my skin like something I need to wash off. He always could make cruelty sound like tenderness and wait for me to be the one embarrassed by the difference.

Rage sits sharp and useless in my chest. The kind that burns clean through and leaves nothing behind. Eventually, I force myself upright and move barefoot toward the kitchen.

Coffee first. Functionality second.

If I let myself think too long about the fact that my son is somewhere in the world breathing and alive while I still don’t know his favorite color, I might genuinely lose my mind.

So instead, I open my laptop.

Work. Layouts. Materials. Restoration estimates. Things I can actually touch.

The Kandinsky is propped near the fireplace, wrapped in acid-free paper I found in one of Aleksander’s storage cabinets. The tear is small. Stabilized for now. Barely visible beneath the protective wrapping.

That somehow makes it worse.

A destroyed thing should look destroyed. This looks like something that might be fine from a distance until you come close enough to see where the surface split.