Indebted to the Mafia King

*Tatiana*

I grit my teeth and force myself not to roll my eyes. Throwing a tantrum won't help but that doesn't stop the anger simmering just beneath my skin. I don't like the way Angelo drew that line between us. Cold. Sharp. Final.

It's not just that he's shutting me out. It's how he's doing it like I'm still some piece on his chessboard, a liability to manage. A prisoner, technically. But from him? That's a slap in the face.

He's across the kitchen, body rigid, watching me. I ignore him. If he wants distance, fine. I've had worse from men with half his brain and twice his ego.

I focus on the window, jaw tight. I will find a way to be useful, whether he lets me or not. I didn't survive this long just to be benched.

"Give me a cigarette," Angelo mutters, moving toward Sal and snatching the pack from the table.

My gaze flicks over in time to see the tension in his shoulders, the anger in his hands.

He doesn't smoke. Hasn't since I got here.

"Sure you wanna do that?" Kian asks, brows raised.

"Just give me one," Angelo growls without looking at him. He lights up and walks out, letting the screen door slam behind him.

I don't follow. If he wants to sulk, he can do it without an audience. He's the one who pulled away.

Whatever.

I push my plate around but force myself to eat. I'll need my strength, even if the food tastes like ash.

The guys start talking sports-something I care less than nothing about. I tune them out, my thoughts drifting back to Russia; t. To Lev's office, t. To the files he used to keep locked up. There might be something-anything-about Oleg I could use. But I doubt Oleg left anything behind. He probably burned the whole house down the second I went missing.

The thought makes my throat tighten, but I swallow it down. Grief is a luxury I can't afford right now.

My hatred for Oleg isn't new. It's a slow-burning thing, etched into every memory. But now that Lev and Ilya are gone-murdered-there's nothing holding it back. I don't want revenge. I want justice. And if no one else will put an end to that bastard, I will.

I glance at the men around me. The Saints hate him too. That much is clear. But waiting around, hoping they handle it? No chance in hell.

Sal gets up, rinsing his plate. "We're heading into the office. Need anything?"

He's trying to play nice-probably feeling awkward after my clash with Angelo. I don't care about his guilt, but I will use it.

"Actually," I say, voice steady, "I asked Angelo for a laptop earlier. Thought some digging might jog my memory. Maybe it will help me find something useful about Oleg."

I pause, then shrug. "But since he's in a mood, I figured I'd ask someone more reasonable."

Sal looks to Dice and Kian. A silent conversation passes between them.

"I don't see a problem," Dice finally says. "Tablets are clean. But you screw with us, and we'll know."

He looks me dead in the eye, and I match it without flinching. "I'm not stupid. I know what side I'm on."

He studies me a second longer, then disappears into the living room and returns with a sleek black tablet. He holds it out-but doesn't let go right away.

"Everything you do, I'll see," he warns.

"Fine by me," I say. "I've got nothing to hide."

He lets go.

Once they're gone, I dive in. First stop: maps, locations, anything that might stir a memory. Nothing. My mind draws blanks. Just a dull ache forming behind my eyes.

I switch tactics:. Oleg's name, the Romina family. Old news articles pop up-most of it garbage. Sanitized, vague reports about my father's murder. Lev told me the truth. These headlines? They're fairy tales.

After a couple hours, Kian drops a bag of food in front of me. "Grab what you want. We'll eat later."

I nod and mutter thanks, not looking up.

Eventually, hunger wins. I shove the tablet aside, rip into the food, then get back to it. But by six, I've hit a wall. No leads. No sparks of memory. Just frustration.noveldrama

I shower, trying to rinse off the disappointment. It doesn't help s. So I head outside. The two guards on the porch tense when I step out.

"Hey," I say coolly. "Just getting some air. Don't worry I'm not dumb enough to run." They nod but don't respondanswer. That's fine. I'm not here to make friends.

I settle on a bench, breathing in the crisp air. It's the first time I've been outside since I was dragged here and as much as I hate to admit it, it feels good-the quiet, the space, no walls closing in.. The quiet. The space. No walls closing in. "Can we talk?"

His voice slices through the air like a blade.

I turn. Angelo's standing near the porch, hands in his pockets, looking casual-but I

can see the heat in his eyes. He's trying to mask it. He's failing.

"Sure," I say. Short. Controlled.

"I talked to my boss," he says. "He believes you."

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My brows lift. That's unexpected. "Didn't think he would."

"He did.” He pauses. "But you're still not free to leave."

I stare at him. "That supposed to be a favor?"

"It's protection," he says tightly. "Oleg might come after you. We're not taking that

risk."

"Shouldn't that be my call?"

His jaw tightens. "Not in this situation."

I shake my head, letting out a low, bitter laugh. "So I'm not a prisoner-but I'm not allowed to walk out the front door. Sounds like a technicality."

He exhales and runs a hand through his hair, finally coming to sit next to me. He reaches for my hand-hesitates, then takes it. His touch is warm, steady. Too damn gentle for someone playing warden.

"Be mad if you want," he says. "But I meant what I said. I'm not letting you go. I won't lose you too."

It should piss me off more than it does. And yeah, part of me is mad. But another part

-the part that's been alone, hunted, haunted-wants to believe him.

Still, I keep my voice cool. "You don't get to make that decision."

"I already did."

I look away, jaw tight. He's infuriating, controlling, and overbearing. Controlling. Overbearing.

And I hate how much I want him anyway.