10. Milo #2
The city slides past the tinted windows.
We head west, away from downtown, past the river and into the industrial outskirts.
The buildings grow sparser, replaced by overgrown lots and old factories.
My hands are clenched so tight in my lap that my nails dig into my palms. I keep stealing glances at Maxim…
He’s checking messages on his phone, completely calm. Like he does this every day.
Of course he does this every day.
The car eventually turns onto a gravel path that crunches loudly under the tires. We’re well outside the city now, surrounded by trees and derelict buildings.
This is it. The perfect spot. No one around. Easy cleanup. I can already picture the gun, the single shot, my body rolling down the embankment into the water.
My breathing gets shallow. I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying not to panic.
The SUV slows to a stop. The driver kills the engine.
Maxim opens his door. “Come.”
I step out on shaky legs, the gravel loud under my sneakers. I scan the area desperately for an escape route that doesn’t exist. Then a side door on one of the large abandoned warehouses creaks open.
The, to my shock, Uncle Paolo steps out.
Relief crashes over me so hard my knees nearly buckle. I run toward him without thinking. “Uncle Paolo!”
He catches me in a quick, firm hug. For the first time since the handover, I feel something like safety. “Milo,” he says, voice low. “You look well.”
“I’m happy to see you,” I whisper, meaning every word.
Paolo pulls back and studies my face, searching. “How is life with the Kovalev family? Be honest.”
I hesitate, hyper-aware of Maxim standing a few feet away. “It’s… okay,” I say carefully. “Not what I expected, but okay. Good. It’s fine. I’m just happy to play my part.”
Paolo nods, satisfied for now. Maxim gestures toward the warehouse entrance. “Shall we?”
We walk inside together.
The place is huge and echoey, dust motes floating in the shafts of light coming through broken windows high above. I immediately spot several of my uncle’s guards positioned near the entrances, hands resting near their weapons. On the opposite side, Maxim’s men are doing the same.
The tension in the air is thick enough to taste.
Maxim turns to me. “Wait over there on the old couch. This won’t take long.”
I obey without argument, crossing the concrete floor to a faded, dusty couch in the corner. I sink down, pulling my knees up.
From here I can watch everything…
Maxim and Paolo walk to the far side of the warehouse, voices too low to carry. They pace slowly as they talk, gesturing occasionally. Whatever they’re discussing looks serious—both men are focused, intense. Guards from both families stand watch, eyes scanning every shadow.
This isn’t a social call. This is business. Dangerous business.
I try to read their body language. Maxim stands tall and commanding, arms crossed at one point. Paolo listens, then responds with sharp hand movements. At one moment Maxim glances in my direction, and even from this distance his gaze feels heavy. I look away quickly, heart fluttering.
After what feels like forever but is probably only twenty minutes, Maxim walks back toward me. “We’re leaving.”
Paolo follows and stops in front of me. “Take care of yourself, Milo. Remember who you are.”
“I will,” I promise.
He gives me one last nod, then turns and disappears back into the warehouse with his men. Maxim places a hand lightly on my lower back—not possessive, just guiding—and leads me outside to the waiting SUV.
We drive away in silence for a few minutes. The knot of fear in my chest slowly unwinds, replaced by exhausted relief…
I’m not dead. Not today, anyway.
Maxim finally speaks. “We’re going to stop somewhere for food.”
My stomach rumbles at the idea. The cereal feels like it was days ago. “Can we pick up some more ice cream?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Maxim turns his head, one dark eyebrow raised.
A slow, knowing smile curves his lips. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed ice cream that much.”
Heat floods my face instantly. I go bright red, remembering last night… naked on my bed, smearing cookie dough across my nipples and cock while fantasizing about him. The way I came so hard I saw stars.
Does he know somehow?
Was he watching me before making a deliberate door sound later?
Could he somehow smell it on me this morning even though I showered?
Either way, the very possibility mortifies me.
“I… it’s just really good,” I mumble, staring out the window so he can’t see how crimson my cheeks are. “Triple cookie dough. From Carlo’s.”
Maxim makes a low sound that might be amusement. “I’ll make sure we get some.”
The rest of the drive passes in a strange, charged quiet.
I keep replaying the warehouse meeting in my head.
Whatever Maxim and my uncle discussed, it felt important.
Bigger than just me. And the fact that they brought me along—even if I was sidelined on a dusty couch—makes me wonder if I’m becoming more than just a symbol of the truce.
By the time we pull up to a quiet roadside diner, my embarrassment has cooled to a low simmer.
Maxim orders for both of us without asking… burgers, fries, milkshakes, and yes, a pint of triple-cookie-dough ice cream to go. We eat in the car on the way back, windows down, city slowly reappearing around us.
I steal glances at him while he drives. This man spanked me senseless yesterday, watched a rom-com with me, threw me into a terrifying panic this morning, and is now buying me ice cream like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I have no idea what to do with any of it.
But as I spoon another bite of creamy, chocolate-studded perfection into my mouth, one thing feels certain: Maxim Kovalev is rewriting every expectation I had about him.
The only question is… what next?