Page 15 of Single Mom's Daddies
I start to leave. But something in the front window catches my eye. Movement. Not someone walking past. Someone standing still. Watching.
I pivot slightly, catching the reflection in the glass door just long enough to see the angle of his jaw, the cut of the coat, the slight forward lean that says he’s used to chasing people on foot. My stomach tightens.
Ruger.
I don’t see his badge. I don’t need to. His face is burned into the back of my memory.
That night five years ago—Nadia’s face pale under the security lights, the gunshots ringing louder than they should’ve, the chaos after the meeting went sideways. And him. In the background. Moving fast. His partner bleeding out. I hadn’t even noticed the second man was dead until later. Until the whole room stank of gunpowder and blood.
I don’t break stride. I don’t look again. I walk out the door like I didn’t notice him at all. The SUV’s parked half a block away. Blacked out. Same as always. I slide behind the wheel, shut the door, and start the engine with one smooth motion. No rush. No panic. Just precision.
Through the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of Ruger walking away. He doesn’t turn. He wants me to know he’s watching. Wants me to wonder how long I’ve been followed and what he’s up to. He wants me scared.
Scared people make mistakes. Not me.
I check the street behind me once, twice, then pull into traffic with the kind of care that makes it look like I’m not thinking about how much I want to break the man’s knees.
Not yet.
The heat in my chest isn’t anger. It’s grief. Still raw after all this time. Still edged with guilt I don’t have words for. I could’ve stopped what happened to her. If I’d been faster. Smarter. Meaner.
But I wasn’t.
And now there’s a federal agent walking Milwaukee’s streets with a vendetta and a memory like a steel trap. One who knows my face. Knows my name. Knows my family.
And he just made sure I remember his.
The country club smells like lemon oil, tobacco, and too much money.
From the outside, it looks exactly like what the world thinks it is—an exclusive hilltop estate with cream stone columns, striped green lawns, and golf carts that cost more than some cars. But the inside? That’s ours.
Mahogany walls, white crown molding, and thick wool carpets that muffle every sound but never quite erase the tension underneath. Every staff member here knows the rules. Don’t askquestions, don’t make conversation, don’t repeat anything you hear. The Bratva’s been using this place for over fifty years. And the family that owns it has been under our protection for just as long.
The dining room we use isn’t on the reservation list. There’s no name on the door, no maître d’ to greet us. Just a long walnut table in a side room near the library, with a built-in bar and velvet curtains thick enough to drown a gunshot.
Victor’s already seated when I walk in. He’s in a slate jacket, shirt open at the throat, the faintest hint of gray at his temples making him look more lethal than old. His hair is long enough for a ponytail these days, but today, he left it loose, like he’s on vacation or something.
Roman follows a minute later, all dark lines and unreadable expression. He doesn’t greet us. Just pulls out a chair and sits. He drags his fingers through his salt-and-pepper undercut, brushing the hair back as it falls forward. A losing battle. By his expression, that’s not the only one he’s lost today.
“Who died?” I mutter, pouring myself a drink from the bar’s crystal decanter.
Roman doesn’t answer. He rarely does unless there’s a point to make.
Victor’s fingers tap the table once. Twice. Then he says, “We have a problem.”
“We always do,” I say.
“A federal problem.”
“I had one on me this morning,” I say. “Ruger. The bastard from five years ago.”
Roman’s head lifts. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. He followed me to the drop point. Didn’t approach. Just watched.”
Victor leans forward. “He saw your face?”
I nod. “He wanted me to see his too.”
