Page 77 of Single Mom's Daddies
When the last door closes behind him, I finally exhale. “Fuck that guy.”
Renner asks, “We good?”
“I’m not in cuffs.”
He exhales, sagging against the doorframe like a man who just barely dodged a bullet. His tie’s crooked, and his hands are still shaking. I can’t blame him. Ruger doesn’t show up with paper unless he’s planning to catch someone with their hands dirty and their alibi cracked.
“We’ve got to move the backups,” I say.
Renner swallows. “Already did. As soon as he walked in.”
“Good man.” I walk out without another word, pausing only to scan the front hallway—Ruger’s gone. No tail. No agents waiting by the car.
I pass my handheld scanner over the entire vehicle in case of RFID tags, but I find none. Still, my skin itches the entire way back to the estate. By the time I pull past the front gate, I already know what I have to do.
We need to prepare. This was just the first poke. Ruger’s testing for weak spots. He thinks if he pushes the right one, we’ll fold.
In the library, Victor’s already pacing, jaw tight, arms folded behind his back like he’s giving himself a reason not to punch a wall. Nikolai sits in the corner chair, flipping through a book he isn’t reading. It’s what he does when he’s anxious.
They both look up when I walk in.
I don’t bother sitting. “Ruger showed up at the gallery this morning. With a signed warrant.”
Victor’s brows go up. “He had paperwork?”
“Signed warrant,” I say. “Detailed. Specific. He asked for provenance on every Svet sold in the last three years.”
Nikolai closes the book gently. “Did he find anything?”
“Not yet. I gave him the public ledgers. The clean ones. He flipped through them, sniffed around, said he’d be back.”
“He won’t find anything useful in the public book,” Nikolai says.
“No,” I agree. “But if he starts pressing the buyers themselves? If he spooks someone enough to talk…”
“Then we could spring a leak,” Victor finishes.
“Or a panic,” I say. “Which might be worse.”
They go quiet. This is the game we play. Everything has to look like art. Just canvas and ink and oil. Beautiful, expensive, tasteful lies.
Nikolai stands. “We move the backups.”
“Already done,” I say. “Renner handled it.”
“Renner is weak. One day, he’ll crack.” Victor rakes a hand through his hair. “We need to talk to Olenna.”
Not happening. “No. Not yet.”
Victor’s head snaps toward me. “Why not?”
“Because she’ll want to go full Cold War. Burn the paperwork, scare the clients, dump a body or two for good measure. Maybe Ruger’s.”
“She’s not wrong,” Nikolai mutters.
“She is,” I snap. “We’re not running some back-alley weapons ring anymore. We have lawyers. Galleries. Stamps of legitimacy. Wedon’tpanic. We do not backpedal into a life that brings heat onto our kids. Remember?”
Victor stares at me for a long second, then nods once.
