Page 43 of The Bratva King

It’s a warning. He knows something. I see it in his eyes. He’s pulled my thread and found it unraveling.

My stomach drops.

Does he know who I am? Does he know my husband’s family? No. Impossible. Not every mob guy knows every mob guy. I’m two thousand miles away.

He doesn’t know.

But he is telling me that if I stay here, the cops will come back, and they will look at me and run my name.

I have no idea if my name holds. If somewhere in a database, a fingerprint or my old name is waiting to drag me back into the light.

Greg made me a good identity. Good enough. But good enough isn’t the same as bulletproof, and I have never tested it against a police inquiry. I cannot risk it.

I look at my son again.

He’s watching me. Waiting. He’ll follow me anywhere. He trusts me completely.

I shift the garbage bag in my hands, lift my chin, and look Nikolai straight in the eye because I will not shrink. I will not beg. I will not let him see just how close to the edge I am, even though I suspect he already sees it.

“Two nights.” My voice comes out steady. “I’ll figure out another arrangement. I would appreciate it if we could stay for two nights, please. Thank you.”

He takes the garbage bag from my hand and carries it to the SUV.

I stand there and watch him load my life into the back of a vehicle that I’m sure cost more than I made last year.

Nikolai picks up the laundry basket, loading it beside everything else like any of this is normal.

“Get in.” Nikolai opens the back door.

I shuffle Luke forward, lift him into the seat, and buckle him in. He should have a car seat, but I can’t afford one.

“I’ll ride in back with him,” I say to Nikolai.

He shrugs, and we walk around to the driver’s side. I hesitate. This might be a terrible mistake, but I’m out of options.

I keep my hands folded in my lap, so I don’t fidget. Fidgeting means I’m scared. I can’t let Luke pick up on my apprehension. The last thing we need is Luke in a meltdown.

So, I pretend to be serene, staring out at the passing scenery. I track the route. Old habit. I always know where I am. I always know how to get out.

I’m expecting a penthouse in the heart of the city, but he keeps driving. The apartment buildings and strip malls thin out. The houses get larger. The artificial lawns get greener.

We keep going.

I lean forward slightly. “Where are we going?”

Nikolai doesn’t turn around. “My house.”

“Where is your house?”

“West.”

The neighborhoods are gated communities. I clock the distance from the Strip in my head and feel a wave of panic. We're a long way from public transportation. We’re a long way from anything I could walk to with a four-year-old and a bunch of garbage bags.

Two nights, and I’ll figure something else out. A shelter closer to the Strip. Maybe the YMCA. I know there’s emergency housing assistance through the county, but the waitlists are months long. Greg’s money could get me one of those cheap motels off the Strip.

I look at Luke. He’s still watching the window. His hand is resting on top of his blanket, and his fingers are splayed out. He does that when he’s calm. When he’s not calm, he grips and twists it with both hands.

He’s calm, so I’ll be calm.