Page 9 of Single Mom's Daddies
“I want a nanny.”
Nikolai goes still. “Are you high?”
“She’d keep the kids away from the adults. Redirect the questions. Occupy them when the rest of us are trying not to get arrested or killed.”
“And when she sees something she shouldn’t?”
“We make sure she doesn’t.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m not sayingthat. I’m saying we vet her. Hard. She doesn’t get close unless we’re sure.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fine. You want a nanny, we’ll find one. But if she can’t handle Mila?—”
“She’ll have to.”
Nikolai leaves the room with one more shake of his head, muttering something in Russian under his breath.
I lean back in my chair. If the feds come for us, they’ll start with the weakest point. That’s not our business. That’s our blood. And I’ll be damned if they ever get close enough to touch it.
But I can’t stop thinking about the way Mila lit up talking about Olenna’s bone collection. How Alex repeats everything she says like gospel. How fast they’re getting pulled into this world by default. We swore we’d raise them differently.
But that’s the lie we keep telling ourselves—that they’re not already inside. The truth is, we were born behind the walls. So were they.
We just made the walls prettier.
I don’t bother texting Victor. He’ll find out when the woman’s already in the compound. He prefers it that way. I rise from the chair and stretch. My back cracks. My knees pop. I feel every one of my forty-three years and every one of the lives I’ve taken to stay alive this long.
The house is quiet again.
Outside, the sun’s dropped low. The pool reflects the peach-stained sky, and the breeze smells like chlorine and late-summer grass. From here, the compound looks like a dream.
No one would know this place runs on blood and ledger balances. That’s by design.
The kids’ rooms are at the far end of the east hall, buffered by a sitting room filled with picture books and antique toy chests that double as safes. Mila’s door is slightly ajar.
I knock once, then peek in.
She’s asleep on top of her covers, one leg kicked out, the hem of her dress bunched around her knees. A flashlight rests on her chest, still glowing faintly beneath her arm.
Beside her on the pillow is a sketchbook.
I step closer and gently lift it.
She’s drawn a shelf with bones. Very detailed. Each one labeled. At the bottom, she’s written:This one is a rib from a man who hurt Aunt Olenna’s feelings.
I close the book carefully and pocket it. One more child’s drawing for the fire. Can’t leave evidence in the house.
Alex is curled on the floor at the foot of her bed, arms wrapped around a stuffed wolf with one ear missing. His mouth is open slightly. Drooling.
I brush the hair from his forehead and pull a blanket over him. Then I turn off the flashlight and close the door. In the hallway, I lean against the wall and let the silence hold me for a moment.
This is the line we’re walking. We wanted power so our family would be safe. Now we need someone to keep our family safe from the power.
But power is all that protects us from our enemies. That, and possibly a nanny.
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