Page 42 of Single Mom's Daddies

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“If he comes again?—”

“He won’t get near the books.”

“Good.”

But that doesn’t solve the problem.

I step past him into the private lounge. A long velvet couch, too many mirrors, two girls pretending to enjoy themselves by the bar. They glance over, eyes wide, then look away.

Smart.

Aunt Olenna’s already seated in the corner. She’s sipping something dark from a glass she brought herself—she never drinks what Renner stocks. Too soft, she says. She nods once as I approach.

“Think he enjoyed himself?” she asks.

“Too much.”

She hums. “He’s not stupid.”

“No,” I agree. “But he’s reckless.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes. One is dangerous. The other is predictable.”

She sips again. “Which is he?”

I don’t answer.

She smiles like she already knows. “The paintings sold.”

“They did.”

“But not well.”

“No.”

“You’re worried.”

“I’mthinking.”

She raises a brow. “Thinking about what?”

“If Svet falls, we fall with him.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t want to find out.”

“Max and Yuri do.” She says it so casually, like she’s ordering lunch. “They’re waiting for this to fail,” she continues. “They think if you boys stumble, it’ll justify their nostalgia.”

“For murder.”

“For control,” she corrects.

“There’s no difference.”

She smiles again, slow and sharp. “Spoken like someone who’s still pretending there’s a line.”

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