Page 47 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

"What?"

"Get me a substitute teacher ID. I want to meet this kid."

Dmitri went silent.

I could practically picture his expression—eyebrows knitted, mouth turned down, like he'd swallowed undercooked pasta.

He probably thought the request was insane.

Years ago, I would've agreed.

Me, Ivan Volkov, Pakhan of the Bratva, running off to teach preschool? The entire New York underworld could laugh for three years straight.

But that was my son.

He was four years old. Four whole years without a father. I couldn't just drop into his life and announce I was his dad.

That would terrify him.

I needed an identity. A legitimate reason to show up in his life. An excuse to take things slow.

"Boss, do you remember what we do for a living?"

I stared at that tiny smiling face on the screen, my mouth curling up uncontrollably. "Of course I remember. We crawled out of gunfire and bloodshed. We've got blood on our hands, bodies under our feet. Everything we do involves betting our lives." I paused, my throat working, the swell in my chest growing softer. "But that doesn't conflict. I just want to see my son. I'm not taking down a rival operation. Getting a substitute teacher ID isn't hard for you."

Silence on the other end for two seconds. Then Dmitri sighed, long and drawn out, like it came from the bottom of his lungs.

"Oh God, that woman's got you completely scrambled."

Dmitri hung up.

I knew he thought I'd lost my mind. But I also knew he'd get it done, just like he had for the past dozen years. He never dropped the ball on what mattered.

I turned my gaze back to the computer screen. In the photo, the little boy stood on the school playground, his uniform freshly washed, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Sunlight caught on his honey-blonde hair, making it shine.

Little guy, just wait for me.

Dmitri's efficiency never disappointed. The ID came through the next day, a thick stack of documents in the envelope, even the work badge looked legit.

I didn't give myself time to hesitate. Put on a pressed shirt, clipped the badge to my chest pocket, and drove to the school.

The security guard at the gate checked my credentials, smiled, and waved me through. Like I really was just another ordinary substitute teacher.

I walked toward the playground. Bright sunshine spread across the entire field. Kids' voices flooded in from every direction, high-pitched and crisp, like a flock of birds just let out of a cage. Especially over by the soccer field—particularly lively.

A group of little ones chased a black-and-white ball around. The ball rolled and rolled, veered off course, and bumped into my shoe, stopping.

A boy in a blue jersey ran toward me. He tilted his round face up and smiled. "Excuse me, sir, could you kick the ball back to me?"

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Sweat glistened at his temple against his short hair, honey-blonde strands blown up by the wind, gray-blue eyes shining bright.

He looked exactly like the photo.

But he was living, breathing, standing right in front of me. His breathing still quick from running.

This was my son.