22. Milo #2
Maxim gives Paolo a rough shake. “Your uncle is finished. His men are dead or scattered. The cartel deal is dead with him. I can end this right now…” His voice drops, calm and deadly.
“Or, if you wish it, I will spare his life. He will be put on a plane to Italy tonight. Exiled. No power, no soldiers, nothing but a quiet villa and the rest of his days to rot in shame. The choice is yours, malysh.”
I stare at Paolo.
The man who took me from my bed in the middle of the night and traded me like cargo. The man who modernized the family after my father’s death. The man I once called uncle.
Memories flood me—Papa’s laugh on the Amalfi Coast, his warm hand in mine, the shouting I overheard that night in the study.
My chest tightens until I can barely breathe.
I look Paolo dead in the eyes. “Did you kill my father?”
Paolo’s swollen lips twist into something almost pleading. “No, Milo. I swear on my mother’s grave. It was the Russians. Old rivals. I loved my brother!”
The lie barely leaves his mouth before his good hand darts down. In one lightning movement he yanks a slim knife from an ankle sheath and slashes viciously at Maxim’s thigh.
Maxim roars in pain but doesn’t let go. Blood blooms dark across his trousers. Paolo twists like a cornered animal, stabbing again. The two of them crash together in a brutal tangle, rolling dangerously close to the roof’s edge.
“No!” I scream.
Michael’s arm locks around my waist, hauling me back. “Stay here!”
I fight him like a wild thing… elbows thrusting, pure panic. “Let me go! That’s my Daddy!”
The struggle carries them nearer the low parapet. Maxim lands a savage punch that snaps Paolo’s head back, but my uncle drives the knife toward Maxim’s ribs. They grapple, feet slipping on the wet rooftop, only inches from a deadly drop.
I slam my head backward into Michael’s chin. He grunts, grip loosening just enough. I tear free, spot Maxim’s dropped pistol glinting on the concrete, and snatch it up. The metal is still warm.
My hands shake but I raise it anyway.
Paolo has Maxim pinned for a split second, knife raised high.
I don’t think. I just squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot cracks across the rooftop. Paolo jerks as the bullet slams into his back. He arches, mouth open in shock, then collapses sideways off Maxim.
I walk forward on autopilot, gun still raised. Paolo is coughing blood, eyes wide with disbelief as he stares up at me.
“You…” he rasps, voice wet and broken. “You stupid little boy…”
I stand over him, tears streaming down my face. “Tell me the truth. Right now. Or I swear I’ll make it slow.”
His lips twitch into a bloody, bitter smile. “Fine… yes. I arranged it. Your father was weak. He would have ruined everything. Real power… he stood in the way. So I removed him. For the family.”
The confession hits like a second bullet. Something inside me snaps clean in two… grief, rage, betrayal, all of it fusing into cold clarity.
I raise the gun again.
“Milo,” Maxim starts, voice rough with pain.
I pull the trigger.
The shot echoes. Paolo’s head snaps back. His eyes go blank.
Silence falls over the rooftop except for the wind and the distant wail of approaching sirens.
I drop the gun. It clatters at my feet.
It’s over.
Maxim pushes himself up, blood soaking his leg, and limps toward me.
The moment his arms close around me I shatter.
I bury my face in his chest, sobbing so hard my whole body shakes.
He holds me tight, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other pressed firm against my lower back like he can keep all my broken pieces together.
“I’ve got you, darling boy,” Maxim murmurs into my hair, voice raw. “It’s over. You did what you had to do. I’m so proud of you.”
Michael’s voice cuts through, urgent. “Chopper’s ready! Police will be here in minutes. We need to move!”
Maxim doesn’t let me go. He simply scoops me up—wincing at the pain in his leg—and carries me toward the waiting helicopter. Michael fires up the rotors. The wind whips harder as we climb in. Maxim settles into the seat and pulls me into his lap, arms locked around me like iron bands.
The helicopter lifts off, the city lights spinning beneath us in a dizzying blur.
I cling to Maxim’s shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, tears still pouring down my cheeks.
Relief and grief crash over me in waves. Papa’s killer is dead. The man who traded me, who lied to me my whole life, is gone by my own hand. And Maxim—my Daddy—is here, alive, holding me like I’m the most precious thing in his world.
“I killed him,” I whisper against his neck, voice cracking.
“You protected what’s yours,” Maxim answers, pressing a kiss to my temple. His hand strokes slow, soothing circles on my back. “Just like I would have. You were so brave, little one.”
I cry harder, the sobs ripping out of me. Sadness for the father I lost. Relief that the nightmare is finally ending. Fear of what I just became. And underneath it all, this bone-deep safety I only feel in Maxim’s arms.
My Daddy holds me through every shudder, murmuring soft Russian endearments I don’t fully understand but feel in my soul. The city shrinks below us as the chopper banks away from the chaos.
But right now none of that matters.
I’m safe.
Maxim is alive.
I tilt my face up, eyes blurry with tears, and whisper the only words that feel right.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Maxim’s arms tighten around me. His lips brush my forehead, soft and reverent.
“I love you too, malysh. More than you know.”
The helicopter carries us into the night, and I let myself cry until there are no tears left… cradled in the arms of the most dangerous, most gentle man I’ve ever known.