Page 118 of Single Mom's Daddies
Ruger’s people are still walking the perimeter, cataloging everything for the report they’ll send up to whatever office holds their leash. Ruger himself is gone, escorted out under protective watch. He said he’d testify. That he’d flip the narrative in our favor.
I don’t know if I believe him. After he revealed the true purpose of his visit, it’s hard to trust him. But the fact that he told us the truth counts for something.
Inside, the fire in the great room is low and steady. The kids are playing as if nothing happened. Ivy’s laughing at something Mila said. It echoes faintly from the landing above, and for a second, that sound is the only thing tethering me to the ground. Alex adds his color commentary here and there. I can’t quite make out the words, but I catch the beat of their conversation. It’s the most soothing music in the world.
I pass through the dining room, past the newly scrubbed gallery, and out to the back terrace. The guards nod when I step through the door, their new positions tighter, more deliberate. Each one trained to fire before asking questions.
I lean on the railing, watching the trees shift in the breeze. Someone clears their throat behind me. “Will you let me stitch you up yet?”
I smile without turning around. “Sure, Doc.”
Dr. Vlad joins me and starts working on my arm. “It’s a damn miracle you’re still vertical, you stubborn ox.”
I snort at that. “Had to see them. Had to know.”
“You had to pretend you’re in control again after this nonsense.” The needle somehow hurts worse than the bullet.
“That too.” I pause. “Mrs. Popovich?”
“Will outlive us all. I gave her some sedatives to make her sleep for a couple of days. Nurse Melanie says she’ll call in some extras to keep an eye on her and the kids—she needs a few days off after today.”
“Understandable.”
“There we are.” He covers the stitches in a bandage. “Good as new. What about the rest of you?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Roman. You’re Pakhan now. If you’re concussed?—”
“Fine. I’m concussed. But I’ve had a lot worse. How’s Victor?”
He pauses, scanning me like his eyes are a CT machine. “A few broken ribs and a dislocated finger, possibly a fractured cheekbone, definitely concussed, several contusions. He’ll heal, as long as he doesn’t get into another fight anytime soon.”
“He does love his fights.”
“He says he loves his violin more, so he’ll be good to make himself heal faster.” Dr. Vlad shrugs. “I think he wants to be able to play for his daughter.”
“Because he’s a good dad.”
“You all are.” He pats my less injured shoulder. “If you feel nauseous?—”
“You’ll be the second to know.”
He totters away, on to the next patient, I presume. The night goes quiet again. Joe’s gone. Ruger’s out. The rest of Costello’s crew is scattered or arrested.
We won. But it doesn’t feel clean. It never does. Not really.
A creak behind me. Saffron.
Barefoot, wrapped in a cardigan that’s clearly not hers—Victor’s probably, by the way it drapes over her shoulders. She walksup beside me and rests her arms on the railing, mirroring my posture. We don’t speak for a minute. Just stand there, side by side, watching the forest shiver in the distance.
I don’t know what it is about her, but she makes it easier to swallow reality. “I don’t know what happens next.”
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
I glance at her. “After all of this, are you staying?”
“You think I’m scared?”
