Page 28 of Daddy's Reluctant Queen

Well, fuck it. This kid needs a friend. “Sure.” I lean onto his bed. “Tell me all about it, kid.”

10

TITUS

Ispent a good chunk of the evening planning out my time with Sofia. Since all the planned Bratva business is moving along without my oversight, I can spend some time on this… hobby?

No, this is a conquest. As I told Ignat, it’s the spoils of war that I get to enjoy. And when I’m done and she’s all used up, I’ll discard her. Simple as that. All that said, having a conquest like this will require upkeep, certainly. I had a more clinical thought process about it before I made it happen. Just a bare bones structure in place for how I’d like this entire thing to go. Now that it’s all been put into action… well, it’s not what I expected.

For one thing, Sofia is naturally headstrong. I wore her out that first time. Enough to still her smart tongue, but not completely. She’s still plenty of bark and probably all of her bite. I didn’t exactly expect her to break completely, but I didn’t expect her to hold up so well to what I dished out. She almost seems made for this kind of thing.

But it’s only been one day. Breaking a stubborn filly takes time. I hope she got all the rest she can handle because it’s back to the grind today. Literally and figuratively. I’ve got hours blocked off that I can spend ‘training’ her.

In other issues, I’ve had to send out for food over these past few days until I can settle the issue of Natalie’s absence. Luka’s noticed her absence and I’ve yet to give him an explanation outside of ‘She’s gone on vacation.’ I don’t like lying to the boy, but on the other hand, I have no idea how to tell him that the only woman who has been caring for him for all these years isnevercoming back again because she’s dead.

The only reference for the kind of conversation I need to have with him comes from my relationship with my Pakhan. He was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a parent and he didn’t mince words with me. If someone was dead, he said so plainly. Bratva men don’t waste time on sugarcoating things. That said, he also didn’t allow me to grieve. If I had to cry for the dead, I was told to do so in private. Never let anyone see me weep under any circumstances.

I suppose I could do that with Luka. Oddly enough, it’s hard to imagine being that hard on him. Such things seem so simple in theory. And then the day comes when you have to put them in practice and you find that it’s a little more complicated. Telling him that Natalie has died and then saying that he’s not allowed to cry about it feels less like making him strong and more like crushing a butterfly under my shoe.

I suppose I don’t like the idea of being the source of his sorrow. I also don’t like the idea of him growing up so weak that he can’t handle the specter of a thing that surrounds me in and out of every day. Who knew this kind of thing was anywhere near as complicated as it actually is?

Breakfast comes in fast food bags today. Processed bacon and egg sandwiches, orange juice in plastic containers with straws, hash browns formed in blocks for easy consumption. It’s almost a crime to have to feed Luka this crap.

I go to his door and to my surprise, I find that he’s still asleep. He’s snuggled under his blankets, his mouth open slightly as tiny snores rumble out of him. He must have stayed up after I put him to bed. I’ve told him about that.

He gets a pass for it now, I suppose. I set the fast food bag on the writing desk and leave him to sleep. Hopefully, he stays asleep for the next couple of hours while I deal with Sofia.

I get to her room and before I open the door, I hear music playing. Sounds like she’s up, at least…

I open the door just as she’s pulling a T-shirt on. The room smells of her—jasmine and rose with a hint of sex. I picked up the scent in her hair at the warehouse. Now it fills the room.

The television is on behind her, a kaleidoscope visualizer playing over soft classical music. She pauses, looking at me, then her eyes drift down to the bag in my hand.

“Good morning,” I say, closing the door behind me.

She turns to me fully, looking at the bag with a tilt of her head, then crossing her arms. So. The defiance starts already. Here we go.

“You don’thaveto have breakfast,” I say. “I’d advise against it, however. Days tend to be longer when you skip meals.”

Her lips twist tightly, then, “I’ll eat it. I’m starved, actually.”

“That is no way to greet me and you know it. Try again.”

She stiffens a little, then, “Good morning, Sir.”

“That’s better.” I walk all the way in the room and hand her the bag. She opens it.

“So, is this how I’ll be served every day?” she asks. Then with a smartass smile, she says, “You surround me with all this luxury and then serve me a McSandwich with hashbrowns?”

“You might’ve had eggs benedict if your brother hadn’t killed my housekeeper,” I retort. Her smile fades.

“Touche, Sir.” She sits down on the corner of her bed, laying the food out on the comforter. She picks up the breakfast sandwich and unwraps it. “May I ask a question, Sir?”

“You may.”

“Who’s the boy in the other room?”

I freeze. “What?”