Page 33 of Kneeling for Daddy
“I’m aware,” I grumble, my tone laced with irritation and protectiveness as I rap my fingers anxiously against the table. “I’ll do what’s necessary. I don’t need a fucking lecture.”
On the other side of the table, Alek tilts his head slightly and lightly clears his throat. “My father’s men… They aren’t happy. They don’t like that their side businesses are gone. They don’t like that they’ve been sidelined by The Kings—their enemies.”
“They’ll fucking adapt,” I snarl.
“No. They won’t.” Alek shakes his head. “Not all of them. Some of these men have made fortunes trafficking women and moving drugs under the radar. Now it’s being dismantled. They’re old school. They don’t have loyalty to anyone but each other. These are the type of men who would rape, murder, and sell their mothers and daughters if it meant they knew they could capitalize on it. You think they’ll just roll over and play nice? There will be a fallout, and that means Ani could be a target.”
“That means we’realla target,” I correct.
Cillian sucks in a sharp breath. “Including Madison and Eavan.”
“I know.” I nod, my jaw tight. “We’ll make arrangements if it escalates. I’m sure Hawk could have a team here within days. Because nothing is going to happen to my family”—especially my Ani—“Not while I’m breathing.”
The room falls into a calculated quiet, each of us considering the ramifications of this merger between our families and how it might play out. Enzo finally breaks the silence. “So we cut it offat the root. Keep money flowing, ensure men stay in line, and make very public examples of anyone who steps out. Same as always.”
“It won’t be that simple,” Alek insists. “But it’s a start.” The club feels like a war room instead of a den of sin, all of us hashing through details for over an hour—who’s loyal, who’s wavering, and where the weak points are.
Eventually, Alek pushes back from the table, adjusting his jacket as he rises. “I’ve got crews to check on. I’ll make sure the message gets reinforced on my end.” He turns to leave the table and pauses. “Nik, can I have a minute?”
After pushing from the table, I walk with him to the door.
“This is about Ani.” His voice is low and laced with concern. “Her safety… I need you to ensure that she’s safe. I’ll immediately let you know of any threats. If this escalates, I want those guys brought in right away. Full detail. No questions. Understand?”
“Consider it done.” While I don’t appreciate this kid barking orders at me, I can’t argue with him. If she were in his care instead of mine, I’d be demanding the same thing. Alek nods and turns to leave, pausing when I grab his arm. “I need your help with something, too.”
I’m sprawled on the couch, wearing a pair of leggings and one of Nik’s old T-shirts, when the sound of the front door unlocking startles me from my blank stare at the television. I’ve been trying futilely to use it to occupy my mind. Instead, I’ve spent my afternoon stewing in the pit of homesickness that has been gnawing at me for days.
The door pushes open as I sit up straighter. Nik strides in with a broad smile that lights up his face and fills the entire apartment with warmth. “I see you’ve made it far today,” he light-heartedly teases about my unkempt appearance, or the fact I haven’t exactly moved from the spot I was in when he left.
“Practicing being a kept woman,” I deadpan, noticing the white plastic takeout bags in each of his hands. And behind him—like it’s the most normal thing in the world—my brother, Alek, with a bag hanging from each of his as well. I blink in confusion, my jaw falling open slightly. “What’s going on?”
Nik sets each of his bags on the island and gestures for Alek to do the same. “Since I can’t take you to Armenia, I’m doing my best to bring it to you,” he shares matter-of-factly.
I continue to stare, my brain not processing what he’s saying.
Bring Armenia here? That’s impossible.
He starts unpacking bags, lining up takeout containers one after another, and popping open the lids. My gaze spans across the island—kifta, tolma, still steaming lavash, a tray of brown bread, bright salads with parsley and lemon, and even a little box of paklava with powdered sugar dusting the seams. It’s a buffet of my childhood. I can’t remember the last time I smelled all of this at once, the familiar spices—cinnamon, cumin, garlic, and mint—wrapping around me like a hug from another life.
The spread warms my heart so much that my chest tightens. I press a trembling hand to my mouth. Overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, my eyes sting hot, and I blink back the tears threatening to betray me.
With his hands still busy opening lids and arranging everything for our feast, Nik doesn’t look at me when he speaks again. “I had Alek give me a list of your favorites. We had to drive to three different restaurants to get them all.” He glances up, his soft blue eyes locking on mine. “Hope we got it right.”
My throat closes up, and I choke, “Thank you.”
Alek snorts, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he is seeing or hearing. “Yeah, becausehehas any idea what paklava is.”
A broken laugh, mixed with a happy sob, bubbles out of me. Turning toward Alek, I step close and wrap my arms tight around him. “And thank you.”
“Who are you? And what did you do with my bratty, ungrateful little sister?” he jests, lightly patting my back. Pulling away just enough to study me, he adds, “You look different… Dare I say, happy? And without a black card in your hand.”
I swat at his arm, trying to play off what I know he’s hinting at. “That’s what happens when I don’t have to share a house with you or those goons you call friends.” But the truth is there. He can see it, and I can’t deny it—because he is right. I’m different.Happier. I just didn’t realize it shows.
Nik clears his throat and gestures at the food. “Grab some. Eat… before it gets cold.”
The three of us gather around the island, creating a sight I swore would never happen—my brother and my husband willingly sharing a meal together. Food passes back and forth between us, and plates fill quickly. Alek pokes fun at Nik’s—supposed—culinary knowledge every time he mispronounces a dish from our home country. The two of them shoot so much sarcasm at each other, I’m surprised they don’t wind up drawing their guns, while I’m laughing so hard that my stomach hurts.
As he teasingly fights with Nik, Alek keeps glancing across the island to me. Between mouthfuls, he blurts, “You don’t just look different. You laugh differently.” He shovels another forkful of tolma and talks around the food in his mouth. “Like you mean it.”
