Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Nicolas’s POV

I’d done this forty-two times.

Called the packs. Stood in front of them. Made decisions that needed witnesses.

This one was different.

I knew it was different the moment I saw her standing at the edge of the platform. Slight. Still. The pale hair loose around her shoulders. The posture she always had—shoulders slightly drawn in, chin level, eyes forward. The version of her that had learned to take up minimum space.

She wasn’t doing that today.

Not quite.

Her shoulders were back. Not forced. Just—different. Like something had shifted in her center of gravity when she wasn’t looking.

I watched her for exactly two seconds before I made myself stop.

Business first.

---

The great hall of the palace held four hundred people at capacity.

It was holding three hundred and twelve today. I knew the exact number because Roman had given me the exact number, because Roman always gave exact numbers, because Roman believed that information was the only reliable defense against chaos.

Three hundred and twelve people. Representatives from thirty-eight of the forty-two packs. The alphas who hadn’t come in person had sent their betas with full proxy authority—I’d required that specifically. No one was going to claim later they hadn’t gotten word or hadn’t been properly represented.

No one was walking away from this with any excuses.

The hall was old stone and high ceilings and the kind of acoustics that made everything sound like pronouncement. I’d always liked that about it. Sound traveled here. You couldn’t whisper and expect it to stay small.

I stood at the front.

Andrei was to my left. Roman to my right. Both of them exactly where they were supposed to be, doing exactly what they were supposed to do—Andrei watching the room, Roman watching me, both of them ready for the moment it stopped being procedural.

The two guards brought them in from the side door.

Maxim first.

Then Mikhail.

They were bound at the wrists. Not dramatically—not chains, not anything theatrical. Just flex-cuffs, efficient, the kind that made a statement through their ordinariness. *This is not a ceremony.* *This is a consequence.*

Maxim’s face was still a wreck. The eye had opened up some in the last four days—the swelling was down—but the bruising had gone through yellow into that particular ugly green that meant deep and recent and not finished healing. His jaw was set. His posture was still good. I’d give him that. Even now, even in this room with three hundred people watching, he was performing. Holding his head at exactly the angle that said *I am not afraid of you.*

He was afraid of me. He’d been afraid of me for four days in that cell and he was afraid of me now.

He was just better at not showing it than most people.

Mikhail was not better at not showing it.

Mikhail looked like a man who’d already accepted something and was trying to hold himself together through the end of it. His eyes moved around the room—found me, looked away. Found the floor. Stayed there.

Three hundred people went silent.

It wasn’t because I did anything. No signal. No gesture. It just—happened. The particular silence that fell when I was in a room and had decided something was about to start.

I let it sit for one second. Two.

Then I spoke.

---

The list was long.

I’d had Roman compile it. Every incident, every date, every name. The medical records—iron Thorn’s own records, pulled by my own people from their own archives, the ones they’d thought were private. The injury reports that didn’t match the official explanations. The gaps—the places where the documentation just *stopped,* where someone had decided this particular moment wasn’t worth noting down.

I read it.

All of it.

Not summarized. Not abbreviated. Every line.

The hall was very quiet.

I could hear it—the specific quality of silence that happens when three hundred people are trying not to make any sound that might draw attention to themselves. The sound of people holding very still.

"Eighteen months," I said. "Documented. That’s the part we can prove with paper." I looked at Maxim. "We don’t need the rest."

He looked back at me.

Still performing. Still holding the angle.

"The alpha rank of the Iron Thorn pack is hereby revoked," I said. "Stripped, not transferred. No successor from your line. The pack will select its own leadership through proper channel." I turned to Mikhail. "The beta status of Mikhail Sorokin—honorary, since you’d already effectively lost it—is formally removed and will not be restored."

Whispers.

Quiet ones. The kind that moved through a crowd like a current, person to person, the sound of three hundred people processing something and trying not to be seen doing it.

I kept going.

"Both parties are to be released from this facility following the close of these proceedings. No pack on this continent will offer them protection, housing, or rank. If any alpha in this room extends either man formal sanctuary—" I looked at the room. Took my time with it. "That’s a conversation you and I will be having. Privately."

Nobody moved.

"The mate bond protections issued by this office extend to Irina Sorokina," I said. Her name in my mouth felt different than any other name. "Any pack that has participated in spreading false information regarding her character, her conduct, or her history will be contacted by Roman’s office within the week. That conversation will also be private."

I looked at Maxim.

He knew what was coming.

He’d known what was coming since I’d started reading the list. I could see it in the way his jaw worked—that small, unconscious movement. The only crack in the performance.

"Maxim Volkov," I said. "Do you have anything to say."

He should have said no.

I knew the second the words left my mouth that he was going to say something. He couldn’t help it. That was who he was. Every room he’d ever been in, every conversation—he’d needed to have the last word. He’d built his whole identity on it.

He looked at me.

Then he looked past me.

At her.

Something shifted in his face. The performance went away. Just for a second—just one second—and what was underneath was uglier than the performance.

"She’s going to ruin you," he said.

His voice was calm. Clear. Loud enough for the front rows to hear, and the acoustics did the rest.

"She ruins everything she touches." Still looking at her. Still that particular, ugly certainty. "You think this is over? You think she’s yours? You don’t know what she—"

"Maxim."

My voice didn’t go up. That was the thing people always miscalculated. They expected volume when they pushed me. What they got was the opposite.

He stopped.

Looked at me.

Something moved in his eye. Calculation. A decision being made very fast.

And then he moved.

Not toward me.

Sideways. Fast. The cuffs came apart—he’d been working at them, I realized, the entire time I’d been talking he’d been working at them—and he was moving *toward her.*

Three steps. Maybe less.

He was fast. I’d give him that too.

I was faster.