Page 28 of Single Mom's Daddies
Kindness. And the fact that she didn’t see it coming says more about her past than anything else she’s told me or that Nikolai’s background check could pull up.
I hand her a small key ring—two keys, one for the cottage, one for the back gate. “You move in tomorrow.”
She nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Roman.”
She smiles a little at that. “Yes, Roman.”
Nikolai stands and stretches. “We done?”
“For now,” I say.
Saffron turns to him and extends her hand. “Thank you.”
He blinks at her, then shakes it. No smirk. No comment. Odd, coming from him.
When she leaves the room, I stare at the door long after it clicks shut behind her.
“She’s something,” Nikolai says finally.
“She is.”
“You think this is gonna work?”
I don’t answer. Because I honestly don’t know.
7
VICTOR
I’m supposedto be reading a dossier.
It’s open in front of me, laid flat across the desk like a body waiting to be identified. Ruger’s face stares back at me—square-jawed, deep-set eyes, the kind of man America likes to pin medals on. His partner’s face is there too. The late Jon Trent. Killed five years ago when the Costellos tried to push north and forgot who owned the city.
Trent’s death was regrettable. Ruger’s survival? That was inconvenient.
He’s persistent. Controlled. That’s the worst kind. I know men who act from anger. They’re predictable. Sloppy. But a man like Ruger doesn’t lash out. He studies. He waits. He files paperwork in triplicate and knows exactly which strings to pull, and when, and who to make bleed quietly when the cameras are off.
And now he’s sniffing at our edges. Watching. Circling.
I close the file, stand up, and walk out of the room.
The house is quiet. Not dead—this place never dies—but calm, like a well-trained animal. The light through the east windows is pale and pleasant, painting long bars across the hardwood floors. Somewhere in the kitchen, someone is washing something. The muffled sound of cutlery and water.
I need air.
Outside, the grounds are dappled in late afternoon light. The gravel path crunches beneath my shoes, a rhythm I find comforting. Repetitive. Honest.
And then I hear her. That laugh.
I don’t know why it stops me, but it does. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s low and real and warm in a way that feels wildly out of place in this world we’ve made, like someone accidentally left the back door open and sunlight got in.
I hadn’t realized the children were outside, but there they are—Mila standing with a clipboard and Alex crouched in the dirt, pointing to something small and fluttering between the tomato plants.
Saffron’s kneeling, elbows on her knees, talking them through whatever they’re looking at. Her curls are tied up in a loose knot that’s losing its battle with the humidity, and there’s soil on her wrist. She’s not dressed to impress, but she doesn’t have to be. There’s something about the way she moves—quiet, unbothered, like the world is heavy but she’s learned to carry it without spilling.
I should keep walking. Instead, I watch.
