Page 90 of Single Mom's Daddies
“Mafia, yes. But these days, they’re small-time. They learned what happens when they push us too far. They’re still rebuilding, and it’s been five years.”
Saffron watches me closely, like she knows there’s more I’m not saying. But she runs a hand through her damp hair, the ends curling from the drying heat of the fire. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling me the truth.”
I nod, swallowing the guilt that comes. “Whenever I can, I will.” At least that’s the truth.
24
NIKOLAI
The kitchen smellslike cedar polish, scorched toast, and espresso just starting to go bitter in the pot. Espresso roast brewed as a full pot of coffee is my favorite. Same amount of caffeine as other regular coffees, but it puts fire in your ribs better than most. It’s too early for any of us to be awake—light hasn’t even hit the trees outside yet—but I couldn’t sleep.
I never can when I wake with this feeling.
It’s not a headache. Not nerves. Not dread. It’s something deeper. Heavier. Like the instinct’s been passed down in blood, muscle, bone. I’ve learned not to ignore it.
Bad things happen when I ignore it.
I pour a mug of espresso, the ceramic warm in my hand. The bitter steam curls around my nose, but it does nothing to soothe the tightness in my chest. I don’t know what’s going on. But my instincts are lit up. I don’t like it.
Victor walks in behind me, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, already rubbing the back of his neck like the day’s irritating him just by existing. “Morning,” he mutters.
I grunt. Take a sip. Burn my tongue. Perfect.
He grabs a banana from the fruit bowl, peels it halfway, and leans against the counter. “Max left early this morning. Before the sun was up. Didn’t say why.”
My mug nearly slips from my hand. Coffee sloshes down the side and onto my knuckles, hot and sharp.
Victor raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”
Max.
That’s what this is. That’s what I’ve been feeling all morning—something twisted just under the surface, something sharp waiting to cut. He’s up to something. And if it’s early and secretive, it’s nothing legal.
I set the mug down and wipe my hand on a napkin. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“Always.”
Victor watches me for a beat longer. But he lets it go.
I head back upstairs. Jeans. T-shirt. Glock tucked into the waistband, concealed. I grab my keys and leave the compound through the east gate, the one with the long blind curve. No one stops me.
If Max’s truck is gone, I’ll have to guess. But I know him. He has patterns. And patterns betray you.
Downtown Milwaukee at this hour is barely waking up. The light’s still low and blue, casting everything in cool tones that make the brick look damp and the pavement colder than it is.
I drive slow. One hand on the wheel, one finger tapping against my thigh, eyes scanning every alley, every rooftop edge, every too-quiet vehicle on the shoulder.
Max is smart and dumb in ways that make him dangerous. He doesn’t overplan or overthink. Knows how to move through a city like he still owns it. And when it’s important to him, he always chooses elevation.
Which is why I spot the glint.
Third floor, west-facing window of a half-renovated office building that used to house an insurance firm. Windows blown out on the east side, scaffolding up the front, but the corner suite’s intact enough to hide a shadow.
