Page 61 of The Bratva King

“It is. We’re still learning what he does and doesn’t like. It’s never a straight line. Last year, he loved mac and cheese. And then one day, he didn’t. Won’t touch the stuff anymore.”

“The guns,” he says.

My stomach drops. Luke in this house. This beautiful, enormous house full of God knows how many weapons tucked into God knows how many places. I know what he is. And I’ve lived in houses like this. I know they are not what they appear to be. And there’s a reason for it. A reason I don’t want to think about.

“How many?” I ask quietly.

“Enough.”

“Nikolai, he’s a curious boy.”

“I’ll speak with my security team tomorrow. We’ll move them. Consolidate.” He takes a slow sip. “I can’t remove them entirely. I won’t.”

“I know.” And I do. I understand it better than he probably expects me to. I grew up in a world where men slept with guns under their pillows. Where the sound of a safety clicking off was as familiar as a door closing. I’ve hated guns my entire life. “I know you can’t. I’m not asking you to.”

He looks at me. I think he expected a fight.

“I’m asking you to put them somewhere a four-year-old can’t access them,” I say. “High up. Locked, if possible. And I need to know where they are. Not so I can move them. So I know where they are.”

He nods.

“I’ll talk to Luke,” I say. “About what to do if he ever finds one.”

“I’ll do it.”

I blink. “Sorry?”

“I’ll talk to him.” He sets down his glass. “Man to man.”

I’m aware that I’m staring, and I can’t seem to stop. “He’s four and a half.”

“I’m aware.”

“He doesn’t talk to people.”

“He talks to me.”

He says it without arrogance. And the infuriating thing is that he’s right. My son said goodbye to this man shortly after they met, and ate cereal next to him this morning. Two of a kind. Like attracts like.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Okay, you can talk to him, but please, don’t let him mess with them.”

“I grew up in a house with guns,” he says. “I know.”

Nikolai most likely had the childhood I wanted to shield Luke from. And I’m right back in it.

“There’s something else,” I say.

He waits.

“I am trying to get Luke in to see a doctor that specializes in kids who might be neurodivergent.”

“Makes sense. Why are you trying? Why not just do it?”

I smile. To him, it really is that simple. “There are waitlists. Every state has different criteria. I just got health insurance through the casino. I’ve been trying to get him evaluated for almost two years. I’ve never been in one place long enough to get through the process.”

He says nothing, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop.

“There’s a school here. Real resources for kids like him.” I look at my hands. “We’re on the waitlist. I don’t know how long it’ll take. And even if he gets in, I need the evaluation first because they’ll want documentation, and I don’t have any, because every time I get close, we…” The words dry up. “We’ve had to move a lot.”