“My boss wants to see you. Right now. He’s waiting in the lounge downstairs.”
I laughed, bitter and low, the sound ricocheting against the peeling wallpaper. “Tell your boss I’m busy being a mother. Goodnight.”
Surprisingly, the knob twisted under his grip, as if he had a master key. The door creaked, and I lunged to slam it shut—but a heavy palm pressed against it, stopping me cold.
Giovanni leaned into the frame, fluid and precise, sliding the chain free in one practiced motion. With a shove, the door swung wider, filling the threshold with six-foot-four menace. His dark suit was perfect, every line tailored; a gun peeked from beneath the jacket, resting like a silent promise.
“You and your son are coming with me. Now.” His voice was low, gravelly, carrying the weight of a threat that didn’t need to be spelled out.
I froze, chest tightening as if it might crush me from the inside.
“I... I’m busy being a mother,” I said, voice even, though the tremor I fought to mask betrayed me.
Giovanni’s eyes flicked to Vanya, sharp and calculating, then back to me, cold and unwavering. “The boss isn’t asking.”
Why would Dmitri want to see me? Was it because of what Vanya had done—marching up that aisle like he owned the place—or had he somehow traced his stolen phone to us?
My mind raced, piecing together the puzzle while my heart thudded in warning.
Giovanni’s gaze swept the room again, slow, methodical, lingering on every detail—the peeling wallpaper, the faint chlorine smell, the way the light hit the scratches on the table—and then settled back on me, sharp and unblinking, as if trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what he knew.
Of course. Anyone would think I had risen from the dead.
His presence filled the doorway like a storm waiting to break.
Vanya launched off the bed like a tiny missile.
For one wild second I thought he would run to me—hide behind me, cling to my legs, play the part of a frightened five-year-old.
But no.
My son marched straight in front of me, planted his bare feet shoulder-width apart, raised his fists like a miniature Spartan warrior, and glared up at a six-foot-four Bratva enforcer.
“You can’t take my mom,” he said, voice trembling but loud. “You’re not allowed.”
The audacity stole my breath.
Giovanni’s gaze dropped to him—slow, assessing.
And for a heartbeat, something flickered across his face.
Recognition.
And beneath that... fear?
Because even a Bratva enforcer knew what it meant for a child to look exactly like his king.
I slid Dmitri’s phone into my pocket so smoothly it almost looked like part of the argument. Then I squared my shoulders, stepped around my son, and faced Giovanni head-on.
“Fine,” I said, voice cool enough to frost metal. “If your boss wants to see me, he can come up here. Tell Dmitri Volkov I don’t do lounge visits.”
Giovanni’s jaw flexed, the muscle jumping.
His eyes sharpened to a razor’s edge.
For a dangerous, suspended second. I thought he’d simply grab us both and haul us out by force.
He had the size. He had the authority. He even had the gun.
