The Mafia King of Philadelphia: From witness to his doted wife

At that moment, the men in white rushed forward. Viktor’s chest rose and fell, fast and hard. His hands were still clenched at his sides. He could feel his own pulse in his ears, a heavy drumbeat that drowned out everything else for a moment.

”I have had enough of this nonsense,” he said. His voice was not loud at first. It came out low, tight, like something held underwater too long. Then it broke free. ”All of you, out of my house. Now!”

The words echoed off the high ceiling and bounced back at him. For a second, even the men in white seemed to pause.

One of them, a tall man with a shaved head and cold, flat eyes, reached into his jacket. He pulled out a phone. He did not rush. His fingers moved slowly over the screen, like this was a routine he had done a hundred times before.

Then he pressed it to his ear, said a few quiet words, and held the phone out toward Viktor.

Viktor looked at it. He did not want to take it. Something in his stomach turned cold, heavy, as a stone dropped into still water. He already knew, somehow, whose voice waited on the other side.

He took the phone anyway. It was already on speaker. The line crackled softly before the voice came through low, rough, worn down like gravel under a boot.

”Listen to me, Viktor.”

The voice filled the room. Sienna, standing a few feet away, felt her whole body go still.

”I still have not dealt with you,” the voice went on, slow and deliberate, ”for trying to harm my daughter. Katalya is my daughter. And even though I have not seen her yet, in all these years, I know she is my little Kat. You mess with her, and you will answer to me.”

Viktor’s throat tightened. He stared at the phone in his hand like it was something venomous.

”Fine,” he said. ”I will not mess with her. But tell her not to mess with me. She has no business in my house.”

There was a pause on the line. A long one. The kind of pause that made the air in the room feel thinner.

”What makes you think so?” the Don said. His voice had gone quieter now, and somehow that was worse than if he had shouted. ”I made a marriage pact with your late father. You and my daughter are to wed.”

Viktor closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel Sienna’s gaze on him, though he did not turn to meet it.

”Well, sir,” he said carefully, ”that has nothing to do with me. My father is dead. And I am married now.” He paused. ”Your daughter, I am sorry, I cannot stand her. So tell your men to get her out of my house.”

Somewhere behind him, he heard Aliya let out a small, sharp breath. Almost a laugh. Almost not.

The don’s voice returned, and this time it carried something final in it, something like a door closing.

”The marriage pact still stands,” he said. ”You will divorce your wife. And you will fulfill your marriage pact with my daughter.” Viktor’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned pale.

”If my daughter cries again,” the don continued, ”or complains about you again, I will personally handle this matter.”

A short silence followed. Then, quietly, almost gently, he added:

”It’s final.”

The line went dead.

The dial tone buzzed once, twice, and then nothing. Viktor stood frozen, the phone still pressed against his ear, though there was no one left to listen to.

Beside him, Sienna pressed two fingers to her temple. A dull ache had begun to bloom behind her eyes the moment the voice first spoke, and now it pulsed harder, sharper, like something trying to claw its way out from the inside.

Her stomach turned. She did not know why. She only knew that hearing that voice that low, rough, familiar-sounding voice made her feel sick, deep down, in a place she could not name.

She swayed slightly on her feet.

And for reasons she could not explain, her hand reached out, searching for something solid to hold onto. ”Sienna!” Viktor’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

He was already moving before he finished saying her name, closing the distance between them in three long strides.

His arms caught her just as her knees gave way, just as her body began to fold like something losing all its strength at once. He pulled her against his chest, and for one terrible second he felt how light she was, how still, and something in him went cold with fear.

Her head fell against his shoulder. Her skin, when his hand brushed her cheek, felt clammy and pale.

He did not look at Aliya. He did not look at Don Capri, or Elena, or the wall of men in white still standing guard around the room like statues carved from stone.

He did not care, in that moment, that his home had been invaded, that his floors were covered in strange boots, that his life had been rearranged in the span of a single phone call. None of it mattered. Only the weight of her in his arms mattered.

Slowly, carefully, he lifted her. One arm beneath her knees, the other cradling her back, he carried her out of the hall.

Every step felt heavy. Every step felt like it took too long.

He did not speak to anyone as he passed. But inside, his thoughts were anything but quiet. A single wish burned behind his calm face, steady as a flame that refused to die: he wanted them gone. All of them.

He wanted to watch the life leave their eyes, one by one, starting with Aliya’s smug little smile and ending with Don Capri’s cold, satisfied stare. He wanted it so badly his hands trembled with the effort of not letting the thought take over completely.

But Sienna came first. Always Sienna.

Marcus followed close behind him, silent, his eyes sweeping the hallway, the stairs, the shadows near the windows. He did not trust this house anymore. Not with these people breathing its air.

Behind them, the hall stirred back to life.