Page 24 of Bratva King's Secret Twins

Mia’s eyes light up with excitement as she jumps off the bed and rushes to her wardrobe. She rummages through her clothes, pulling out a pair of bright pink overalls and a sparkly blue t-shirt. With a toothy grin, she holds them up for my approval.

“Perfect choice! You’ll be the coolest kid at school in that outfit.”

Once Mia is dressed and ready to go, she grabs Mr. Floppy’s paw tightly in her hand. I smile and take her hand, leading her out of the room and back to the kitchen.

Gio looks up, his face brightening when he sees Mia. “Ready to go, Mia?”

She nods more confidently this time. “Yeah, ready.”

After pouring an obscene amount of syrup on top, I slide her the plate of pancakes I made for myself. “Alright, eat quickly; the bus will be here soon.”

As the twins finish eating breakfast, I pack their new backpacks with notebooks, pens, and snacks and zip up the bags. I hoist them onto their little shoulders and adjust the straps for a perfect fit just as the school bus pulls up out front.

“Okay, are we ready for school?” I ask, ruffling their hair.

Mia takes a deep breath, squeezes Mr.Floppy, and nods.

Gio laces his hand with hers. “Don’t worry, I got you, Mia.”

I pull them into a bear hug, kiss their foreheads, and watch as they rush from the front door to the bus.

Nana Rose is leaning against the wall, an expectant look on her face as she taps her ruby-red nails against the mug of her coffee.

“What?” I question, moving towards the kitchen sink to wash the pancake batter off my pants. Nana Rose follows me.

“You know this would be easier if you just told Nikolai that he has children.” Her voice is sharp and demanding, as it always is when discussing this. “That man would not leave you to raise them alone.”

“Nana, I told you. I can’t find him,” I snap, wetting a paper towel and rubbing out the drying tan stain on my black slacks.

“Bullshit, you could have called him.” She uses the same firm voice she did when I was lying as a kid. I throw the paper towel onto the kitchen counter and huff, slouching over the sink.

“He changed his number. All I get is dial tone now.” I sigh, but she clicks her tongue and roughly places the mug on the table. “Besides, I don’t know what he does for work, but it is not legal.”

“So you are so righteous now that you will work yourself into an early grave?”

I spin around and narrow my eyes on her. “I am working this hard only because your son still owes 200,000 to the fucking mob in D.C. If I don’t make those payments, they will come for us, Nana. Do you understand?”

I walk closer, but Nana squares her shoulders and looks me dead in the eye with a sharp pointerfinger.

“Do not talk to me as a child,” Nana says, her voice leveled and stern. She takes a deep breath and continues speaking a little softer. “I am worried about you, Gwen. You work all night at that bar and all day as a receptionist. You don’t sleep. You barely eat. Shit, you don’t even have time to wash your ass.”

“I don’t know what else I am supposed to do.” I sigh, leaning against the kitchen sink.

“Find him. Make him listen, not only so you can get a break, but because that man deserves to know he has children,” she pleads, and I avoid her eyes.

I whisper, “I know.”

11

NIKOLAI

Ever since I was a child, the basement of our house has been a makeshift prison. Soundproofed so my mother wouldn’t hear the endless screams and the type of cold that cuts straight through to the bone. My father always said the cold is meant to suck the warmth from your body with every step. It was his last act of kindness to his captives, an early introduction to the chill of death’s touch—the perfect place for a monster—the perfect place for my father.

Despite all the cells down here, there is no one else. I don’t believe in the messiness of keeping captives longer than a week. If they don’t break under the torture of Nadia, then they will never break and deserve the emptiness of death, like we all do.

A sharp gust of breath from Nadia’s lips fills my ears. This time of year is the hardest for her. She was, and sometimes still is, a daddy’s girl. She visits him every other month to chat, but when we come with her, she knows the only conversation we will have will end in violence.

I reach back, open my hand to her, and she laces her fingers with mine.

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