Page 103 of Single Mom's Daddies
I scan it line by line. Standard form. Signed by a judge. Clean chain of custody. “This gets you into the tax archives. Nothing else.”
“I’m not interested in anything else,” Ruger replies. “Just the ledgers.”
My pulse is ticking behind my teeth. Ruger walks with his hands in his pockets, not trusting us. Not arrogant, but not afraid either. That’s what makes him dangerous.
I unlock the cabinet and pull the drawer. Our accountants may cook influence, but they don’t cook these books. Not ever. That rule’s carved into our bones. Even when we were crooked, we kept good books.
Ruger takes the files and lays them across the desk, flipping through the top report. He’s slow, methodical. His finger traces margin notes. He takes pictures, nods, and moves on.
Victor leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching him like a wolf watches a man reach for its cubs. My brother is ready to snap. I sit in the chair opposite the desk, letting the fire behind me warm my back while I keep Ruger in my sights. Roman paces. Small loops. Controlled. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and Ruger doesn’t speak unless necessary.
It’s a quiet war of presence. At this point, I’m not sure who is winning.
29
SAFFRON
I hearthe voices before I see the tension. Low at first. Measured. Then tight. More clipped. A sharp reply, a snapped question. Someone trying too hard to stay calm and failing.
I glance up from Ivy’s room. The kids are building with blocks and whispering conspiratorially about whether the owl figurine from the nightstand could be the queen of the LEGO castle. I step into the hallway and follow the sound.
The voices echo from the direction of the study.
I take the back path through the gallery wing, keeping my steps silent. I’m not eavesdropping. Not exactly. But something’s happening, and I need to know what.
I catch sight of the stranger just as Nikolai steps into the hall and spots me. His expression tightens. But he lifts a hand—wait—then gestures for me to come with him.
I follow him into a sitting room just off the hallway, plush and quiet, with a vase of fresh tulips on the table and velvet chairs facing one another like they’re used for quiet arguments. He closes the door softly behind us and leans against it.
“That’s Ruger,” he says, voice low. “Federal agent. Been on our heels for a while.”
My stomach flips. “Why?”
“Well,” Nik says, folding his arms. “The day Nadia died, his partner died too. It was supposed to be a negotiation. One last attempt at diplomacy before everything went to hell. Nadia was there to keep it civil. His partner had been working undercover for the Costellos.”
I feel sick. That man has every reason to bring hell down on us.
Nik goes on, “He lost his partner that day. Trent took a bullet trying to get someone to stand down. Didn’t matter which side. Just wanted to end it. Died anyway.”
“And now Ruger blames you?”
Nik gives a lopsided, humorless smile. “He blames everyone. But mostly us, I think.”
I take a slow breath. “Is he dangerous?”
“He’s smart. Cautious. Angry. And looking for leverage.” Nikolai shrugs. “But don’t worry—he doesn’t have any on us. He’s here for tax records. When you’re in the art business…” He winks. “The feds always think you’re skipping your taxes.”
I try to smile. “Do you?”
“Never. That’s how they got Capone. We don’t touch tax fraud. Not even on a slow day.”
That eases something in my chest, but I’m still unsettled. “Still,” I murmur, glancing toward the hallway. “Having him here feels…wrong.”
Nik nods. “It is. But we’re handling it.” He touches my shoulder before slipping out again.
I return to Ivy’s room. She’s giggling now, trying to balance three plastic horses on top of a LEGO turret while Mila offers color commentary and Alex hums the theme to some cartoon I don’t recognize. The light slants in warm through the windows. Ivy’s cheeks are pink from laughing too hard.
I sit beside them, pick up the book we left off on, and begin to read. For a little while, the world is okay. Time slows in Ivy’s room.
