Page 91 of Single Mom's Daddies
I’m shocked he hasn’t filed all the surfaces on his sniper rifle to make them shine less. Maybe he wanted to give his target a fighting chance.
I park a block down. Walk the rest. Hoodie up, sunglasses on, not because of the sun but because I need to move like a stranger.
It’s awkward to watch Max without him noticing me. Early morning crowds make it easier, and I approach a bakery and its neighbor, a coffeeshop.
Max is aimed at the coffeeshop, which means someone important is inside.
I scan the crowd behind the warm, glowing windows. Can’t make out anyone who might have pissed Max off?—
Charles Ruger. Of fucking course.
He steps out of the cafe with a to-go cup, still fiddling with his phone. His overcoat flaps open in the breeze, and he looks the same as ever—crisp, cautious, and too confident for a man who doesn’t know how exposed he is.
The rifle glints as Max takes aim, catching the light on his angling.
If I stop him now, I’ll never know who else he might have been targeting. Could be that Max has more than one target. If Ruger is meeting with the Costellos, he might make this a two-for-one.
I break into a jog, round the corner just as Ruger takes his first sip and starts walking down the sidewalk.
“Agent Ruger!” I call, voice friendly.
He startles a little. “Mr. Orlov.”
I plaster on a grin and walk straight toward him—right into the line of Max’s sight. I keep my body at an angle, my shoulder the perfect shield. Or a target if Max gets angry enough about me cutting him off. “You got a second?”
He blinks. “I—sure. Everything okay?”
“Course. Just thought maybe we should finally talk.”
He frowns. “About?”
I flash a quick smile and start walking with him toward his vehicle. “You’ve been stalking my family for months. Figured it was time we got to know each other better.”
Ruger hesitates before following, but he falls into step beside me, keeping one hand loose at his side like he’s deciding whether I’m a threat or just irritating.
I stay between him and the building. Always.
We pass under a row of skeletal trees—they offer no cover even in early autumn. The wind carries the scent of stale roasting beans, fresh bread, and cold cement. My jacket flaps open slightly—I make no move to fix it. Anything to widen myself and keep Max from firing. Every part of me stays relaxed, smiling.
“Didn’t expect you to be the friendly one,” Ruger says, taking a cautious sip of his coffee.
“That’s because you haven’t been watching close enough.”
He chuckles once. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m weird,” I reply easily. “Ask anyone.”
He slows a little, side-eyeing me. “You sure everything’s fine?”
“Agent,” I say with a low laugh. “If something wasn’t fine, I wouldn’t walk up to you in broad daylight with my hands in my pockets. You’ve been tailing my brothers and asking around like we’re the only ones in this city who enjoy modern art.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Far from it. I’m complimenting your persistence. But if this is how you spend your days, maybe you need a hobby. You’re wasting your time on us.”
Ruger squints at me like he’s still trying to figure out the angle. We’re a few feet from his car now—blacked out SUV with Fed-grade tires and a license plate that tries too hard to be forgettable. He opens the driver’s side door and turns halfway toward me. “You didn’t really come over here just to chat.”
“When did you get so cynical?”
