Page 43 of Single Mom's Daddies
I ignore the jab. “I’m not bringing us back to blood and bullets,” I say. “That ended badly enough the first time.”
“Nadia,” she says, not cruelly. In fact, her voice softens every time she says her name. Olenna loved Nadia. We all did. She nods once. “Then you’d better protect Svet.”
“I will.”
“You’d better silence the whispers.”
“I will.”
“And you’d better be ready to kill that agent if he takes one more step.”
I look at her. Hard. Long. “I said I won’t go back to the old ways.”
She leans forward, eyes glittering. “Then find anewway, Roman.”
Later, I walk the long corridor behind the auction floor alone. The walls here are lined with lesser paintings—things no one bids on, placeholders to fill space. It’s quiet. Sterile. I stop in front of a piece that’s all red. Just red. No texture. No gradient. No name.
I stare at it. And I wonder what it would take for someone to call it brilliant.
A story. A name. A price tag high enough to make it valuable. We made Svet valuable. We made the story. And I will not let Charles Ruger take that away from me.
If he wants a fight, he’ll get one. Just not the one Yuri and Max want.
11
VICTOR
The corner storesits on the edge of two neighborhoods—one that’s barely holding on, and one that’s already given up. A weathered brick facade, a crooked metal gate, and a flickering neon sign that hasn’t been replaced in at least a decade. But the front window gleams, recently washed. The brass bell over the door works now. And the security camera above it has been upgraded—high-res, infrared, motion-triggered.
I’d know. I had it installed.
It’s early. The street’s quiet. The sidewalk out front is still slick from the morning dew, and the metal gate hasn’t been pulled up yet. I wait.
At precisely 8:59 a.m., the bell above the door chimes, and Mr. García flips the sign to “Open.” He sees me through the glass and waves. “Victor,” he says as I step inside, voice warm and just a touch gravelly. “You’re early.”
“Only by a minute.”
The store smells like cinnamon and floor wax. The front shelves are stocked with paper towels, canned goods, and dusty oldboxes of cereal no one buys. In the back, there’s a cooler with soda and cheap beer, and a small freezer that hums louder than it should. The coffee station has been refitted with chrome appliances and a new grinder. That, too, was a gift.
His wife appears from the back with a small smile. “You want tea?”
“Tea would be perfect, Mrs. García.”
She moves quietly, economically, the way people do when they’ve been running a business with their hands for too many years and know where everything is with their eyes closed.
They bought their Svet painting six weeks ago. Hung it behind the counter, just above the cigar case. Untitled, in blue and rust. Subtle. The kind of painting you don’t realize you’re looking at until you’ve already been staring for too long.
They bought it because someone tried to rob them.
Two men, masks, knives. The Garcías were lucky. There was a struggle, but no blood. I sent someone the next day to repair the door. Reinforce the hinges. Check their wiring. I visited myself a week later.
Since then, not a single incident. Funny how that works.
They don’t ask questions. They don’t thank me too loudly. They know what they paid for—and more importantly, they know it worked.
Mrs. García hands me the tea. Chamomile, honey stirred in. I didn’t ask. She remembers.
“You still want to see the footage?” Mr. García asks.
