Page 14 of Single Mom's Daddies
I meet his eyes. “There’s nothing soft about me.”
Max watches me over the rim of his glass, then sets it down slowly. “You wear nice suits, play the violin, read old books. And then you take men out like it’s nothing.”
I don’t say anything.
He sighs, like the confession costs him something. “Look. About what I said—about Ruger. I wasn’t trying to step on your toes. I just…I don’t like when the law gets close. That’s all.”
“I don’t either.”
“And if he comes back?”
“Then we show him the door. Politely.”
Max grins. “And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then,” I say, finishing the last of my drink, “we’ll consider options.”
“That’s more like it.” He stands, claps me on the shoulder, and tosses a few bills on the table—too many, but he doesn’t count. Never has.
“Let me know if anything changes,” he says.
I nod. “Go home.”
He gives a half salute and walks out, whistling again, off-key and too loud.
I wait a few minutes before leaving.
The air outside is colder now, wind off the lake threading through the alley and tugging at my collar. The SUV’s parked at the corner, its windows clean and blacked out. I get in, start the engine, and sit for a moment in silence.
They’re coming.
The weight of it presses down like it always does after meetings like this. Not panic. Not regret. Just the understanding thatholding power means always preparing to lose it. Tomorrow, we shore up the gaps. Reinforce the network. Quiet the chatter.
And if the agent keeps pushing?
Then we’ll decide how to push back.
4
NIKOLAI
The bellover the shop door jingles when I step inside, sharp and out of place in the dusty quiet. Fake cheerful. Like the noise is trying to distract from the fact that the paint’s peeling under the register and the storefront window hasn’t been cleaned in weeks.
I set the small wooden crate down on the counter and don’t say anything right away.
The owner, a stocky man with a Polish last name and a nervous twitch under his left eye, appears from the back. His apron’s got paint smudges in three colors that don’t match anything on the walls. He doesn’t smile. He never does.
“Morning, Mr. Orlov,” he says, voice low.
“Nikolai,” I correct.
He nods, like it matters. He won’t call me by first name. Not ever.
I slide the crate across the counter. He pulls it closer, then unlocks the side latch and lifts the lid. Inside, wrapped in linenand bubble wrap, is a painting about the size of a pizza box—acrylic on canvas, thick with impasto texture and deliberate asymmetry. To the untrained eye, it’s either genius or garbage.
To us, it’s a receipt. “That one’s going to Boston,” I say. “Same name as last time.”
“Yes, sir.”
