4. Milo
MILO
The inside of the Escalade feels like a rolling coffin… black leather, tinted windows, and the low hum of the engine cutting through the rain.
I’m not a fan.
I shift in my seat and look around, trying to get a read on the three men who now technically own me. Or so they think.
Maxim’s two generals—or whatever the hell they are—sit like they belong here. The older one, Kobek his name is, taps away on his phone with the calm efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
The other guy, they call him Michael, murmurs into his own cell in a clipped, Yale-polished voice, confirming something about “territorial markers” and “overnight crews.”
They’re both respectful around Maxim, sure, but comfortable too. No nervous fidgeting. No ass-kissing. These aren’t random soldiers. They were right there at the airfield with my uncle, standing like they mattered.
Close allies. Inner circle.
Great…
I’ve been handed over to the Bratva equivalent of a boardroom power trio.
I turn my face to the window and stare out into the streaking city lights.
We’re moving fast now, the SUV carving through the night like it owns every street.
I catch a glimpse of the illuminated cables of the State View bridge up ahead.
That means we’re heading toward the upscale riverfront neighborhoods on the west side: old money mixed with new, but not the flashy, glass-tower bullshit of Downtown Heights where half the wannabe gangsters park their Lamborghinis and throw money at bottle service.
At least Maxim isn’t some tacky show-off. Small mercies.
I risk a quick glance across at him.
His eyes are already on me…
Piercing. Cold.
It’s like Maxim is peeling back my skin layer by layer to see what’s underneath. But there’s something else there too, something darker, heavier, almost hungry. It makes my stomach flip in a way I really don’t want to examine right now.
I look away fast, heart kicking against my ribs.
My fingers itch. In my tote bag, zipped safely inside my suitcase in the trunk, is Zoop. My most cherished and loved zebra stuffie.
God, I want him right now.
Just five seconds of burying my face in his worn fur and pretending none of this is happening.
But I crush the urge. The absolute last thing I need is to show weakness in front of these men.
Especially not Maxim. I’m not giving him ammunition to think I’m some fragile little boy he can break into pieces at will and then put back together in whatever mould he chooses.
Instead, I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, thumb already moving to open my messages to Charles…
MILO: Just made it to the handover. Alive. For now. Call you tomorrow—
Before I can hit send, a hand shoots out like a striking snake. Kobek snatches the phone from my fingers before I can even hit send.
“Hey!” I snap, lunging for it. “What the actual—"
Kobek holds it out of reach, expression flat. “No phones tonight.”
I stomp my foot on the floor of the SUV, the sharp click of my heel echoing. “Give it back, asshole. That’s mine.”
The temperature in the car drops ten degrees.
“Be quiet.” Maxim’s voice is low, calm, and somehow worse than any shout. It slices right through me. My blood runs cold. I freeze, mouth half-open, the protest dying in my throat. Something in his tone tells me this isn’t a suggestion.
This is law.
I cross my legs tightly and angle my whole body away from all of them, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The city blurs past. Rain. Lights. Strangers who have no idea how fucked my night just got.
Truly, this feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
One minute I was teasing some fake Daddy at the club, the next I’m property. Actual property. Traded like a fucking car.
The rest of the ride passes in heavy silence. I don’t look at Maxim again.
When the SUV finally stops, I’m marched inside a sleek downtown building that screams old-world money. Marble lobby. Private elevator that opens straight into the apartment.
No doorman small talk. No waiting.
I’m beginning to see how Maxim Kovalev moves.
The moment we step inside, the scale of the place hits me. It’s… sparse. Deliberate. And actually kind of beautiful in a cold, museum kind of way.
Dark hardwood floors stretch out under high ceilings.
Expensive art hangs on the walls: original oils, moody abstracts, a couple of pieces that look like they belong in a gallery. And for all I know, they might have been stolen from one.
The furniture is minimal: deep leather sofas, a low glass table, a massive fireplace that probably costs more than most people’s rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering skyline and the river beyond.
Everything is immaculate. Controlled. Exactly like the man who lives here.
Maxim bids goodnight to his men at the door. Kobek hands my phone to him—the asshole—and they exchange a few quiet words in Russian.
Then the door clicks shut behind them, and the apartment falls into an eerie, suffocating silence.
I stand in the middle of the living area, arms wrapped around myself, trying not to shiver.
Maxim walks over to a sleek sound system built into the wall.
A moment later, soft classical music fills the space.
Piano and strings, something haunting and beautiful that makes the silence feel even heavier.
Maxim turns toward me.
My heart slams against my chest as he steps closer. He’s tall. Broad. Towering. When he lifts his hands and places them around my neck—heavy, warm, fingers spanning my throat—I stop breathing entirely.
This is it.
Fuck.
He’s going to kill me right here in his perfect apartment while Chopin plays in the background. My uncle’s truce means nothing...
I’m dead.
But Maxim doesn’t squeeze.
Instead his thumbs brush lightly along my jaw, almost gentle. His voice is low, rough. “I will do what I can to make you feel at home here, Milo.”
A surge of adrenaline floods my body. My skin prickles. My pulse races under his fingers. And worse, heat pools low in my belly, sharp and unwelcome. My thighs press together instinctively and I tense my ass cheeks.
What the hell is wrong with me? This man just wrapped his hands around my throat and I’m… turned on? I shove the feeling down hard, burying it beneath layers of defiance.
“I want to go to my room,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Maxim doesn’t move right away. He studies me for another long second, those icy eyes searching mine like he can see every filthy, traitorous thought I’m trying to hide. Then he drops his hands.
“Come.”
Maxim leads the way down the long corridor. Polished marble underfoot, more art on the walls, sparse but expensive as ever. I have to hurry to keep up with his long strides.
The way he moves, the quiet authority in every step… it’s giving serious real Daddy vibes. The kind I fantasize about when I’m alone with Zoop and my toys. The kind that makes my cock throb even now, even in these awful circumstances.
I shake the thought away violently. No. Absolutely not.
This is a mafia boss who just bought me in a territory deal.
He’s not a Daddy. Maxim is not my anything.
We stop at a door near the end of the hall. He opens it and gestures inside. The bedroom is large, elegant. A king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a walk-in closet, another huge window with a view of the city. My suitcase is already waiting just inside.
“Unpack,” Maxim says. “Get used to your new surroundings. I will summon you shortly so we can talk.”
I watch as he sets my suitcase fully inside, then pauses in the doorway, looking down at me. That same unreadable intensity is back in his eyes.
For a second I think he might say something else. Touch me again. But he simply nods once and closes the door behind him with a soft click.
I’m alone.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed, heart still hammering. The classical music drifts faintly through the walls. My suitcase sits there like a reminder of everything I left behind. I drag it closer, unzip it, and pull Zoop out, hugging him tight against my chest.
“This is so fucked,” I whisper into his fur.
But even as I say it, my mind keeps replaying the feeling of Maxim’s hands around my throat—not hurting, just holding. The low timbre of his voice. The way he looked at me like I already belonged to him.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I am in so much trouble.
After a minute I force myself to stand and actually look around.
The bedroom is bigger than I expected. The high ceilings with elegant crown molding, and plenty of space for the chaise lounge tucked in the corner by the window.
The thing looks insanely comfortable, upholstered in soft charcoal velvet.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a killer view of the glittering city skyline and the dark ribbon of the river below. I can’t deny it: the view is stunning. If I weren’t a prisoner, I might actually enjoy waking up to this every morning.
But I’m not here to admire the décor. Far from it.
My mafia instincts kick in hard. I’ve grown up around this shit long enough to know better. I start with the obvious places…
Light fixtures, the smoke detector, behind the mirrors, under the nightstands, inside the lamps. All clear.
I run my fingers along every edge, checking for pinhole cameras or listening devices.
I even lift the edges of the area rug and inspect the baseboards. Nothing. Not a single wire, lens, or weird bulge.
I move to the ensuite bathroom next. Marble everything, a massive rainfall shower, and a deep soaking tub that looks like it could fit two people comfortably.
“Come on, there must be something,” I mutter, a note of exasperation in my voice.
I check the vents, the mirror cabinet, even behind the toilet.
Still nothing.
Either Maxim is arrogant enough not to bug the guest room, or his people are just that good.
I step out of the bathroom, still scanning the ceiling—
And freeze.
Maxim is standing right there, silent as death, towering over me in the doorway. His broad frame blocks most of the light from the hall.