5. Maxim
MAXIM
This isn’t going to be easy.
There’s something about him.
And it could be dangerous…
The soft click of Milo’s bedroom door echoes down the corridor like a starting pistol. I stand by the windows for another moment, watching rain trace silver paths down the glass, before turning toward the living area.
The classical music has faded to a low hum and I pour myself a tumbler of ice-cold vodka, none of that overpriced single-malt bullshit others drink, and take one measured sip.
The burn is sharp, clean. Then I tilt the glass and finish the rest in one swallow.
It has been a long night.
I set the empty tumbler on the low glass table and pick up my phone. A new message from Kobek waits on the encrypted app…
Kobek: Lentini crews have fully withdrawn from the eastern blocks. No reports of unrest on the streets. Quiet so far.
A good start. I type back quickly.
Maxim: Excellent. Stay vigilant. Not just Lentini. Watch the Irish and the Koreans too. This kind of power shift always brings out the opportunists. Double the rotations on the bridges tonight. Leave nothing to chance.
I hit send and open the second app. The one very few people know exists…
The feed from Milo’s room fills the screen. High-definition, crystal clear. He was smart to sweep the room earlier. Thorough, even…
But he missed the real prize: the razor-thin miniature camera embedded directly into the antique mirror above the dresser. Invisible to the naked eye unless you know exactly where to look and what frequency to scan.
Michael has his contacts in government, secret service, pretty much any agency you can think of. And that means we have access to the kind of tech that most others in our world could only ever dream of.
This access to official lines of power has served us well, although it’s also fair to say that it has come at a cost too over the years. But nothing I cannot live with, no matter how tough it has been to handle at the time.
Success comes at a cost, always.
I lean back into the leather sofa, one arm draped along the back, and watch the screen in all its 4K glory...
Milo stands in the center of the room, shoulders tense. He kicks off his sneakers with more force than necessary, then peels off the cropped leather jacket. The t-shirt beneath clings to his skin. He removes his t-shirt so that I can see his upper body in its glory. My grip tightens on the phone.
Damn.
He is exquisite. Small but strong pecs with dark nipples already tightened from the cool air. A narrow waist and strong but slender hips. Smooth olive skin that would mark beautifully under my hands.
My cock stirs, thickening against the confines of my trousers as he shimmies out of his tight jeans, revealing a tiny black lace thong that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. The curve of his ass is perfect… round, firm, made for discipline.
The boy likes panties.
I’ll make a note of that for later…
Milo pauses suddenly, glancing toward the mirror.
For a heartbeat I think he might have sensed the camera.
His dark eyes narrow, scanning the room once more.
Then he shakes his head, mutters something I can’t hear, and reaches for fresh clothes.
He pulls on a pair of soft, faded jeans and a simple white t-shirt that still manages to hug every tempting line of his body.
Milo moves toward the door, hand hovering near the knob.
The boy hesitates.
I can see the internal war playing across his face—defiance battling uncertainty. After a long second he turns away, climbs onto the bed, and curls up with that zebra stuffie clutched tight to his chest. He buries his face in its worn fur, shoulders rising and falling in a deep sigh.
He’s a Little.
The realization settles over me like a second skin.
It explains the club he was at, the way he carries himself, the hidden vulnerability beneath all that bratty fire.
My pulse kicks harder. The thought of this fiery, mouthy boy kneeling at my feet in nothing but a collar and that innocent need…
it does dangerous things to my self-control.
Enough observation.
I tap the intercom built into the wall panel. My voice carries through every speaker in the apartment, low and calm.
“Milo. Come here. Now.”
He startles visibly on the feed, head snapping up, eyes wide. A second later his bedroom door flies open and he storms down the corridor, cheeks flushed with a mixture of shock and irritation.
Good. I want the boy off balance.
When he reaches the living area I’m already seated again, phone set aside, one ankle resting casually on the opposite knee. I gesture to the leather armchair directly across from me.
“Sit.”
He hesitates only a fraction of a second before dropping into the chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. Defiant posture. But he obeyed.
“Good boy,” I say quietly.
His eyes flash with surprise, and something hotter, before he masks it with a scowl. I file that reaction away for later.
“We need to be clear about how this arrangement works,” I begin, voice steady.
“The truce between the Kovalev and Lentini families is delicate. One misstep from either side could unravel everything. Your presence here is both a symbol of good faith and a potential weakness. As long as you are obedient, discreet, and do not bring embarrassment to Kovalev business, we will get along just fine.”
Milo’s jaw tightens.
“Obedient,” he repeats, the word dripping with sarcasm. “Like a dog?”
I ignore the bait. “You will have certain freedoms. Clothes, food, access to the apartment. Limited contact with the outside world, under supervision. But any indiscretion, speaking out of turn to the wrong people, attempting to sabotage the truce, or behaving in a way that draws unwanted attention… will be punished. Personally. By me.”
He leans forward, fire in his eyes. “You can’t just—”
I stand slowly, unfolding to my full height. The movement cuts him off mid-sentence. I step around the glass table until I tower over him seated form. Milo has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. The air between us crackles.
“I will not tolerate any form of dissent,” I say, each word measured and final. “That is not how I run my business. That is not how our relationship will play out. Do you understand?”
Silence stretches.
Milo’s breathing has quickened. I can see the rapid flutter of his pulse at the base of his throat. For a moment I think he might push harder just to test me. Then his shoulders drop a fraction.
“…Yes,” he mutters sullenly.
“Yes, what?”
His lips press into a thin line. “Yes… I understand.”
I hold the boy’s gaze a beat longer, letting the weight of my expectation settle over him, before returning to my seat. “Good. Now, you must be hungry. I’ll make you a late supper. After that, straight to bed.”
Milo nods silently, still radiating resentment, but the fight has temporarily gone out of his posture. I head into the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves.
I keep it simple—buttered toast, a glass of water. While the bread toasts I watch Milo from the corner of my eye. He stays in the armchair, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. That same mix of defiance and vulnerability that keeps pulling at something deep inside me.
As I plate the food and carry it over, the thought returns, clearer than before…
The sooner I take this boy over my lap and show him exactly who is in control, the quicker he will settle into his new reality.
I set the plate in front of Milo. “Eat.”
I watch as Milo picks up the fork without argument this time. I sit across from him again, sipping another measure of vodka, content to watch him in silence while the city lights glitter beyond the rain-streaked windows.
The games have only just begun.
But tonight, at least, the board is mine.
“Good,” I say. “Very good.”
I rise and move into the kitchen, sleeves still rolled up. I crack two fresh eggs into simmering water, timing them perfectly so the whites set while the yolks remain runny. A couple of thick slices of sourdough go into the toaster.
Simple.
Comforting.
Exactly what my mother used to make for me when I was a boy sneaking back into the apartment long after curfew, eyes wide from whatever trouble I had found on the streets.
I slide the poached eggs onto the buttered toast, sprinkle a pinch of sea salt, cracked black pepper, and a touch of smoked paprika for depth. The plate looks almost too elegant for midnight, but that is how I do things.
I return and set it before the boy with a glass of cold water. “My mother used to prepare this when I was up late and needed something extra. Eat.”
Milo stares at the plate like it personally offended him. “I hate poached eggs. Yuck.”
I allow myself the faintest smile and sprinkle a little more paprika across the glistening yolks. “You have never eaten my eggs before.”
He gives me a withering look but picks up the fork anyway. The first hesitant poke breaks the yolk, golden liquid spilling over the toast. He takes a small bite, clearly expecting the worst.
Then another.
And another.
Within a minute he is devouring the plate with quiet determination, the reluctant tension in his shoulders easing as real hunger takes over.
When the last crumb is gone he sits back, surprised at himself. “Thank you,” he mutters, almost against his will.
“You are welcome.” I stand and clear the plate without comment. “And now it is bedtime.”
Milo rises slowly. “Can I have my phone back? Just for five minutes. I want to tell Charles I’m alive.”
“Not yet.” My tone leaves no room for negotiation.
“Tomorrow we will discuss rules. And do not worry, over time we can think about relaxing the rules. But this will take trust, proven adherence to the rules, and will be entirely at my discretion. However I know how much you want to make this work, so that shouldn’t be a problem.
But that is for later. As I said, we will talk more in the morning. Until then, you rest.”
The boy accepts it with a sullen nod—progress, however small—and trudges down the corridor toward his room. I watch the flexing of his ass cheeks until he disappears, the soft click of his door the only sound breaking the quiet.
I pull out my phone and message Michael on the encrypted line.
MAXIM: Dig deeper into Milo’s life before tonight. Social circle, habits, anything the initial reports missed. I suspect there are layers we haven’t seen yet. And we cannot leave anything to chance, not with a Lentini.
His reply comes within seconds.
MICHAEL: On it immediately. I’ll have a full dossier by morning. And I’ll keep going from there.
Satisfied, I hover my thumb over the surveillance app.
“Thinking of making any moves, boy?” I ask, my voice low and gruff.
Watching him like this so soon feels like the start of a dangerous habit. I should give the boy privacy. Let him settle. But the pull is too strong…
Milo has already changed into sleep shorts and a loose tank top.
He slips under the covers, pulling that zebra stuffie tight against his chest. He curls around it protectively, knees drawn up, face half-buried in its fur.
The defiant fire is gone for the moment; only exhaustion and a quiet vulnerability remain.
I watch as Milo’s breathing gradually slows, eyelids fluttering shut.
I stand in the living area, phone in hand, and watch until his body relaxes completely into sleep. Something protective—and possessive—stirs deep in my chest. This boy is far more complex than a simple bargaining chip…
A Little, hiding in plain sight behind all that bratty armor.
The thought of peeling back those layers, of earning his real submission, sends fresh heat through my veins.
I finally close the app, set the phone down, and pour myself one final measure of vodka. The burn grounds me as I stare out at the rain-lashed city.
Tomorrow the real work begins.
I will set about to break Milo’s resistance.
I will feed the need I saw flickering behind his eyes.
And when he finally yields, it will be complete.
I drain the glass, switch off the lights, and head to my own room, the weight of the night settling and my mind thinking only of the future.