He scrambled up, picking small bits of pavement off his hands and then his knees. “You didn’t.”
“Your mom’s doing a good job,” Ivan said, suddenly close.
I jumped.
Crap.
I was off around this man. A man I barely knew but was instinctually familiar with at the same time.
Ivan reached for the bike. He wasn’t wearing the gold rings today, but his hands were still decorated with the inky lines of art. Long, thick fingers wrapped around the bike’s handles.
“How about I give her a break?” the kingpin offered.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I protested. “Alessandro is probably waiting for you.”
Ivan pulled the bike from my grip. Something earthy and fresh—minty maybe—tickled my nose. I hurried back a few steps.
“I’m early,” Ivan said in a low tone. “And I don’t mind keeping Mancini waiting.”
The rumble of that voice mixed with the accent made me shiver. Few men were that bold. Or maybe he was just stupid. But…no. One look at his face showed there was none of the latter.
I wet my lips. Dark eyes dropped to track the motion.
The next breath was hard to find.
Brady hopped on the bike and reality snapped back into place. My son was in the clutches of a mobster.
I bolted forward, but they were already moving. The ball of my foot dug into the pavement, and I launched after them.
But…Ivan had him.
Brady whooped, signaling him to let go.
Ivan did. Kind of.
He kept pace. The moment the telltale wobble threatened to claim the boy, Ivan’s hands shot out to catch the bike. They raced ahead another five paces. Ivan let go. Waited. And then readjusted his grip. I slowed. The mobster wasn’t going to let Brady fall. They kept at it. Pedaling, balancing—a careful song and dance. The bike made it halfway around the circular drive. Ivan steadied Brady, helping him to turn. I stopped. The initial flare of panic subsided quickly. Brady made it ten whole pedals without help. Ivan guided him to turn again.
This was…surprising.
While I had lots of boy cousins to help as role models for my kid, I rarely let outsiders influence him. I was the definition of an introvert, content to live with my books, my blog, and my tiny cottage in the small town that had welcomed me.
It didn’t make sense that I trusted a complete stranger around the little boy who meant more to me than life itself. But watchingthem come around the fountain, racing directly toward me, that was exactly what I felt—trust.
And a few other things.
While I still couldn’t place Ivan’s age, he was older. Those muscles shifting under his shirt gave him away. A man’s body. It was hard not to admire the shift and flex. He wasn’t the type that usually caught my eye, and yet here I was. Staring.
I do not have a thing for an older guy.
“Brake,” Ivan instructed. His nose scrunched as he concentrated.
Brady pulled the grip near the handle.
“I did it, Mama! Did you see? I did it,” he said in a breathless rush.
I smiled. “I saw, buddy.”
“Again,” Brady demanded.
