Brady scrunched up his nose. “Again.”
Taking a deep breath, I counted to five. “‘Again, please.’”
“Again.” And then he flashed me that determined grin. Cheeky and cocky. “Please, Mama.”
I melted. “Okay.”
As I jogged beside him, the tires churned over the drive. I flicked a glance at the sports car rounding the curve on the other side of the central fountain. It pulled to the side, out of our way. But given the spastic biker’s lack of coordination, I planned to give the shiny black vehicle a wide berth when we went that way.
My attention was snagged by Brady’s whoop. “I’m ready!”
I released him.
He made it three feet before balance turned in the favor of gravity.
I winced as he vaulted off the falling bike. This time, he didn’t land on the pavement.
“I had it! Did you see, Mama?” he beamed.
“I did,” I cheered.
Footsteps approached. I felt a prickle along my neck. Turning, I came face to face with a pair of flashing black eyes.
“Good morning.” Ivan cant his head.
“Morning.” A mixture of feelings sprouted inside me. The unease at being alone with a mob boss swam in my stomach. I disliked him on principle for being part of the underworld. But if it wasn’t for that, the other feelings, the ones that dared me to admire the tattoos on his forearms, the muscles of his biceps, the easy smirk on his lips, might have taken precedence.
But I was not going to stand here admiring a kingpin. One who was older than me. A man who’d spent the past decades paying the ruthless price to gain the top seat in his organization.
“That’s some bike,” Ivan observed, addressing Brady.
“Sure is!” Brady picked it up and swung his leg over. He struggled to balance on his toe and scoot his tiny butt on the seat. “Cousin Sandro said I needed to practice while we were here. He’ll ship it back home when we leave.”
Ivan’s gaze flicked to me. “CousinSandro?”
“Yup!” Brady chirped. “That’s his house.”
One small thumb jerked at the house. The bike wobbled, and Brady quickly caught the handlebar.
Well, crap.
Now the family tie was out. While it was possible Ivan might mistake the term as one of familiarity, it was far more likely he took the title at face value.
“I’m ready, Mama,” Brady sang out.
Moving to his side meant I had to put my back to the don’s guest. Each step made me painfully aware of how tight—and short—my firetruck-red denim shorts were. But if I tugged the hem, it would only bring attention to them.
Brady pedaled fast, and I had to run.
“Let go,” he squealed.
Reluctantly, I did.
He crashed immediately.
“Madre!” he sassed, still crumpled on the pavement. “You didn’t let go.”
“I did,” I protested, bending to help him pick up the bike.
