Page 9 of Shield and Savior

“Rule 2: keep the music appropriate for kids.”

These children are the third and fifth generation of various crime families. They’ve seen and heard worse than a song dropping the F-bomb.

“Rule 3: keep your distance.”

I didn’t mind being around kids, but I don’t want one of my own. My dad bailed when I was younger than Drew. I have no idea how a father figure works other than gleaning the basic understandings fromBrooklyn Nine-Nine.

I can’t do my job and be boyfriend or a dad. And that’s fine for now. The occasional hook-up is fine by me. I pride myself on my professionalism. I am an executive protection agent.

I nudge her shoulder, and the milk in her bowl sloshes around, nearly spilling over the sides. This earns me a dirty glare, but I ignore it. “I know the rules. I was there when you made them.”

She watches me for a second, like she’s peering into my soul. “The Four Families are counting on you to protect their future.” I’m about to give her a snarky comment, but her face changes. “They’re in danger. They’ve pissed off The Deviant, and he’s already retaliated on the Russians and the Mexican Cartel. It’s only a matter of time before he goes after the Italian and Irish mobs too. Isabella is a weak link.”

“Izzy. She wants to be called Izzy.” I don’t know why I interrupt with this fact, it just sort of comes out.

Another glare from Alana, and she continues, “The Deviant and everyone trying to get Majesty on the streets will exploit her. This is so much bigger than carpooling.”

I’ve heard this all before. I know the drill. But what Alana says next chills me to my core.

“If you fail,” her silence hangs like a noose around my neck, “we’ll have to go to war. I’ll stand beside you and fight, but we won’t win.”

Message received. Failure means death. For me. For Alana. And for Izzy.

ChapterFive

Izzy

My frown feels permanent. I will never smile again. Fact. My whole place smells like cardboard. My fingertips are raw from opening boxes, my brain hurts because I don’t know where anything should go, and I’m at the ‘let’s throw shit where it fits and let future me deal with the problem’ point of unpacking. Zero sleep didn’t help, either.

My ex and my bruises take up about twenty-five percent of my brain capacity. Another fifty percent is focused on making sure Drew is ready for his first day of school—tracking down a uniform for him, getting supplies and lunches, and generally making sure this fucking transition isn’t going to do any long-term damage. Fucked-up kids make super fucked-up adults. And there’s enough of those in the world without adding my kid to the mix.

Am I thrilled my father is paying for Drew’s tuition? Absolutely not. And as soon as I start to make enough, I will pay for that too. Debt and the Four Families make for dangerous bedfellows, and even DNA can’t protect me on that level.

Ten percent of my brain is a self-loathing cycle. Another ten percent is playing Tetris with the stuff in my apartment. Which leaves exactly five percent of my mental capacity to think about Lance.

He stands in my doorway with a cup in one hand and a white bag filled with creamer and sugar in the other. “Your file didn’t say anything about your coffee order, but I updated it last night with your favorite non-dinosaur.”

“I’ve changed my answer. My new vote is for flamingos. Complex mating ritual. They live in acidic water that would kill anything else. And pink is pretty.”

He’s sporting a goofy grin, like he’s in on some joke no one else knows about.

I take the coffee and the bag from him, move towards the counter, and pour in five sugars and four creamers.

“Want a little coffee with your sugar?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I want a little caffeine with my milk.”

He laughs, and it acts like a siren song for Drew, who pops his head out of his bedroom, his entire still-growing adolescent body finding its way to the living room moments later. He yanks on his prep school jacket, and it doesn’t fit. Because of course it doesn’t. Fortunately, it’s a loaner for the first week of school until his real one comes.

“Mom,” he says on a long whine. I know what he’s gonna say. It’s too tight and itchy.

“Did you come up with a code name yet?” Lance asks as he watches me move around the kitchen, searching for the glasses my cousin put away last night.

My son shrugs as he pulls at the sleeves. “I was thinking about a lake monster.”

“You could be Nessie, and your mom could be Champ,” Lance offers before pointing to the cabinet by the sink. “The glasses are in there. Unless you moved them in the middle of the night.”

I open the cabinet, and like magic, the glasses appear. I pour my son orange juice and give myself a mental gold star for a job well done. Bare minimum. Mom wins!

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