Page 42 of The Bratva King

I press my lips together to stifle a laugh because it isn’t funny. Greg spent years warning me about the mob. They’re everywhere, Gabby. Local cops, city officials, judges. You can’t trust any of them. They own everything.

And here I am, standing on a cracked sidewalk in the July heat, my entire life packed into garbage bags, while the mob makes the police go away.

Different family. Same game.

The levity dies quickly as reality sinks in.

I’m homeless. Carless. And after what happened at work, I’m probably jobless now, too.

Shit.

I’m trembling from the adrenaline crash. Luke can’t handle a shelter. He needs his things. His routines. Quiet.

And sometimes, he needs to be loud. Really loud.

Nikolai opens the back of his SUV. Then he picks up two of my garbage bags and hauls them into the back of his vehicle.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs another one.

“Hey.” I grab the next bag before he can get to it and yank it toward me. “Stop. What are you doing? Put those back.”

He turns and reaches for the bag I’m holding. I step back, pulling it with me.

“Give me my things.”

“Get in the car.”

“Excuse me?”

He reaches for the bag again. I step back again. We do this twice before he stops and just looks at me. I realize I’m in a tug-of-war with a man built like a Greek god, while I’m five-foot-three and running on no sleep and pure fear.

We are not equally matched.

“Stop,” I say. “Just… stop. Explain to me what you think you’re doing.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“You and Luke can stay at my house until you figure something out.”

“I am not going anywhere with you.”

“You’re on the street.” He says it without inflection. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll figure it out. A hotel.”

“Do you have money for a hotel?”

I go quiet.

“I’ll call someone,” I say.

Dennis is shouting at someone on the phone. Maybe the police again. Maybe someone who doesn’t mind hurting women and children.

I look at Luke. He’s standing beside the laundry basket with his blanket tucked under his arm, watching the two of us with eyes that understand more than I wish he did. He’s not frightened or crying. He’s just watching, the way he always does, absorbing everything.

“The cops will come back,” Nikolai says.