Page 68 of The Bratva King

Gabby

The nanny’s name is Kylie, and she is worth every penny Nikolai is paying her.

I couldn’t bring myself to hire someone. It felt like too much.

Nikolai did it for me. He showed me her résumé, asked what I thought, and when I said she looked good, he informed me he’d already hired her.

I’d feel guilty about it if she wasn’t so amazing.

She arrived at seven-thirty this morning with a tote bag full of sensory tools and a laminated daily schedule she’d made specifically for Luke. She called two days ago and asked me questions for forty minutes. About his preferred foods. What his wind-down routine looked like. If he had a preferred spot in a room. If he needed a warning before transitions. If he responded better to visual cues or verbal ones.

After we ended the call, I went into the bathroom and cried.

Nobody had ever asked me those questions. Not Carla. Not any of the three sitters before her. I’m not crazy. I’m not the overprotective helicopter parent the other babysitters have made me feel like.

Greg has been supportive, but he’s never met Luke. He doesn’t understand.

Kylie gets it, and she came prepared.

The pediatrician we saw yesterday seemed to understand Luke, too. Nikolai made the appointment materialize out of thin air after two other offices told me their next available opening was in February.

The pediatrician referred us to a child psychologist who specializes in what Luke needs. The appointment is next week. Not three months. Not next year.

I keep waiting for the catch.

There isn’t one. Or if there is, I haven’t found it yet.

I check my phone for the fourth time in the past hour. Kylie’s last text was at eleven-thirty.

Lunch finished. He ate well. We’re doing puzzles now.

She sent a photo of Luke sitting at the kitchen table in the breakfast nook with a puzzle spread out in front of him, his blanket folded on the chair beside him. He looked focused. He looked calm.

He looked fine.

I put my phone back in my pocket and take a slow breath.

He’s fine. He’s completely fine. I’m the one who isn’t.

The floor is busy for a Tuesday afternoon. Full of summer tourists hiding from the heat and spending money here while they do it. I’ve been running a steady table since my shift started. Tips have been decent, which is an improvement over the past few weeks, when everything that could go wrong did.

I almost feel like a person again. A week of actual sleep in an actual bed in a room where the AC works and there are no cockroaches. A week of good meals and the most luxurious showers I’ve experienced.

And Luke is happy. He’s developing a new routine. We still share a bedroom and a bed. I’m not sure if that’s for my benefit or his. I’m starting to think he might be okay in his own room.

That’s the part that scares me most. How quickly he’s settled.

My break comes at two. I take it in the employee break room with a cold Diet Coke. I lean my head back against the wall and let myself feel it for just a second. The relief. The gratitude. The terrifying luxury of not being afraid of tomorrow.

I push off the wall before I can linger in it too long.

I take the stairs up to the administrative floor and stop short when a man the size of a refrigerator steps into my path.

“No,” he says.

“I need to speak with Mr. Sokolov.”

“He asked not to be disturbed.”