Page 13 of The Bratva King

“No.”

I look at him. “We hired someone who’s never worked in a casino?”

“Application says she worked in Atlantic City and up in Reno. Not here.”

“How old is she?”

“Nik...”

“It’s a valid question.”

He doesn’t believe me. “Twenty-four.”

Before I can ask him more, his phone rings. “It’s one of the PR firms.”

He gets to his feet. “I’ll be around.”

He walks out of my office and down the hall to his. I walk to the window overlooking the casino and search the floor for her. I still don’t know her name. That should have been my first question.

I take the stairs down to the floor. I avoid the elevators as much as possible. People see me, they know me, and they want to make small talk.

The employee area is on the sub-level, below the casino floor. Break room, lockers, HR, scheduling. I don’t make a habit of chatting with my employees, but they need a face to put with the signature on their paychecks.

I’m strolling down the corridor when I hear a familiar laugh. The kind that’s designed to be annoying to everyone over the age of ten. A high-pitched laugh and some kind of nautical horn. I know the cartoon when I hear it, because Mila loves the damn show.

Usually, there’s music or some stupid talk show on in the break room. I’m curious to see who’s reliving their childhood.

I push through the door. The television mounted to the wall is showing exactly what I thought it would be.

And on the couch, with his feet dangling off the edge, is a child.

A small one. Four, maybe five years old. Black hair that needs a cut. A dinosaur-shaped backpack sits on the cushion beside him. He’s focused on the screen and doesn’t look up when I walk in.

I stand in the center of the room and look at him.

He keeps watching the television.

I wait. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look over. Doesn’t startle or scramble or do any of the things a child should do when a stranger is nearby.

I know he knows I’m there. He’s ignoring me. I’m hard to ignore.

“Why are you in my break room?” I ask.

He looks at me then. Blue eyes. Very calm for someone his size being addressed by someone my size. I know I’m intimidating with all the tattoos. That’s kind of the point. He looks at me once, then back at the television.

What the actual fuck? He dismissed me.

“Are you lost?”

“No.” He doesn’t elaborate.

He’s still watching the screen. SpongeBob is waving around that damn spatula. The child does not laugh. He watches with a serious, measuring expression.

I scan the room, certain I missed the adult the kid belongs to. No one. The room is empty.

I look back at the boy.

“Hey,” I say.