God, he’s so… fuckingbig.
Was he always thisbig? This… everywhere.
My body betrays me, leaning into his touch for a fraction of a second before my brain catches up. What the hell, hormones? That’s the enemy. The very hot, very touchable—
No. Enemy. Focus.
“I don’t take orders from—”
His fingers flex against my spine, guiding me toward a chair. Not pushing. Not forcing. Just… suggesting. Firmly.
Joker watches the whole thing, mouth twitching. Asshole.
I sit. Not because Leonid told me to. Because I want to. Because it’s a tactical advantage to… to…
Fuck, he smells good.
Fuck, stop it.
“Pancakes!” Elijah chirps, completely demolishing my murderous momentum. “Mommy, look! Dmitry made mine look like a star!”
Dmitry. The Siberian Slaughterer. Making my kid star-shaped pancakes.
I drop my forehead to the marble counter with athunk.
“Coffee?” Leonid’s voice rumbles above me, way too amused.
“Poison?” I mumble into the marble.
“Maybe later.”
I lift my head to glare at him, but he’s already moving away, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His very kissable mouth—
No. No, no, no.
I bang my head on the counter again.
“Mommy’s weird in the morning,” Elijah stage-whispers to Dmitry.
Thanks, kid. Keep spilling all my secrets to the mob.
“More chocolate sauce!” he demands, and Dmitry—may God strike me dead—actually complies.
So, this is my life now. Sitting at a mobster’s breakfast table, half-dressed, watching trained killers spoil my son rotten while plotting ways to murder their boss.
Who, by the way, just set a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. Black, two sugars.
Exactly how I like it.
Bastard.
12
Leonid
Four hours earlier
This morning has gone completely off plan.
