Page 10 of The Bratva King

I unlock my 2004 Honda Civic and climb in. It’s hotter than an oven. The AC works when it wants, but it’s mine. I paid for it in cash from my first three paychecks.

I turn the key. Nothing. That happens sometimes. I try again, and with a cough and a sputter, the engine turns over.

“Good girl,” I breathe. “Good girl. Let’s go.”

I back out carefully, navigate the spiral exit ramp, and pull out onto Tropicana. I put the window down to keep from suffocating.

When I get to the sitter’s house, she’s got the door open, and Luke is standing beside her with his dinosaur backpack on.

“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately. “My replacement was late, and⁠⁠—”

“This is the second time this week.”

“I know. I know, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I need you to be on time. I can’t watch him if you’re going to be late all the time.”

“I’m sorry.”

I take my four-year-old's hand and lead him to the car. He looks up at me. Those blue eyes. Matteo’s eyes. His father’s face, softened by something that’s entirely Luke.

I get him buckled into his car seat, fix his shoes while I’m crouched beside the open door, and kiss the top of his head.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask.

“It was okay.”

I smile, because anything else would have been abnormal. I park the car in front of our building. I hate our building. I hate the neighborhood. I really hate our second-floor apartment.

But it’s all I can afford, and I can barely even afford it. I unlock the door, and Luke enters ahead of me, pulling off his backpack. I lock the deadbolt behind us. Both locks. Always both.

The apartment is small, a single bedroom. It’s enough. It has to be.

I get Luke fed. Scrambled eggs and toast because it’s late, and it’s what he’ll eat without negotiation.

Bath, pajamas, teeth. The same nightly ritual. I read him two chapters of the dinosaur book we’re halfway through, and by the time I close it, his eyes are heavy.

I sit on the edge of our shared bed, listening to him breathe.

This is temporary, I tell myself. Things will get better.

I get up carefully, so I don’t wake him. In the kitchen, I pour a glass of water and stand at the counter, thinking about the day.

Nikolai Sokolov’s hand around that man’s throat.

The intensity of his gaze. The low command in his voice. I can still feel the way his attention locked onto me like there was no one else in the room.

I press the cold glass against my cheek.

Why am I so flustered?

He’s my employer. My very big, very dangerous, very tattooed employer, but still.

I set the glass down on the counter and see something dart along the backsplash and disappear behind the toaster.

A cockroach.

Fuck my life.