Page 40 of Mountain Daddy

The devil just walked into my quiet little life.

And he’s looking straight at the reason I’ve been hiding.

11

NIKOLAI

Fern Hills looks like the kind of place where nothing ever happens.

Main Street. White picket fences. The whole American dream bullshit wrapped up in a postcard.

Perfect place to disappear.

I park the Aston Martin between a rusted pickup and a soccer mom SUV. Feels a little like dropping a wolf into a petting zoo.

I shouldn't be here. Should be back in Chicago, cleaning up the mess I left behind.

But the heat's too much right now.

Police asking questions.

Bratva politics turning ugly.

The man I killed deserved worse than what I gave him.

No regrets. He had it coming.

But the cops don't care what I think. And the rival family wants blood for blood, consequences be damned.

So here I am. Middle of nowhere.

I step out of the car. The air tastes different here. Clean. Like it's never seen anything dark, ugly.

That's when I see the bakery.

“Sugar and Spice” in curving script across the window. Gingham curtains. The kind of wholesome that makes my teeth ache.

The place pulls at me like gravity.

I cross the street. Push through the door. A bell chimes overhead—cheerful, innocent.

And that's when I see him.

A boy. Maybe four, five years old. Dark hair that won't stay flat. Serious eyes that track my movement like he's cataloguing threat levels.

Smart kid.

He's standing behind the counter on a wooden step stool, small hands gripping the edge. Alone.

Something twists in my chest. I don’t understand what it means.

“We're not open yet,” he says sweetly. Voice clear, though. Confident. No fear.

Most kids take one look at me and hide behind their mothers. This one plants his feet and meets my stare head-on.

Brave little bastard.

“That so?” I keep my voice gentle. Soft as I can make it. “What time do you open?”

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