Page 73 of The Bratva King

Nikolai

I think about the kiss as I sit in traffic. My driver doesn’t pepper me with inane questions about my day.

He knows better.

I replay the moment she leaned in. The look in her eyes before she did it. It was different from the way other women look at me.

Women usually want something from me. Access. Money. Protection. They come in every shape and variety, but they have the same quality. It’s all an act. I play along because I want to get laid, but I’m not as naive as they seem to think I am.

There was no acting with Gabby.

That’s what I keep coming back to.

She kissed me because she wanted to. She said so. And then I told her she was paying a debt with her body. Not my finest moment, but I didn’t want her to think she had to whore herself out to me.

I didn’t mean to insult her. I handled it badly. That happens. I’m not good with words, which is why I usually don’t bother with them.

She’s avoiding me. I planned to talk to her before we went home, but when I checked the schedule, I saw she’d picked up another four hours.

She’s saving money so she can move out.

I walk into the foyer of my house and stop.

There is a tyrannosaurus in my entryway. Nearly my height.

It’s staring me in the eye.

I stare back.

I might have miscalculated. Pasha mentioned the lack of toys. Luke likes dinosaurs, so I ordered dinosaurs. Apparently, I should have checked the dimensions.

I find Kylie in the kitchen, picking up puzzles from the small table.

“He’s in the cinema room,” she says before I can ask. “He asked to watch SpongeBob at five. It’s in his schedule. I set him up about ten minutes ago. He’s fine.”

“Good.” I set my keys on the counter. “How was the day?”

“Good overall.” She pauses, and I can tell that “overall” means something different.

“Tell me.”

“We went to the park this afternoon. He did very well. About forty minutes on the swings and the climbing structure.”

“And?”

She looks at me steadily. Kylie is twenty-six. Her father has been one of my security men for years. She grew up knowing what her father does and what it means to work for a man like me. She doesn’t rattle easily. This world isn’t new to her.

“There was a man,” she says. “He was already there when we arrived, sitting on the bench near the east entrance. That’s not unusual. People sit on that bench. But he was still there when we left. He didn’t have a dog or a child with him. He pretended to be interested in his phone.”

I look at her. “Pretended?”

“He was watching us,” she says. “Luke specifically. I moved twice and repositioned. He adjusted both times. Subtle, but I caught it.”

I pull out my phone. “Description.”

“Forties, maybe. Medium build. Black hair. He left maybe two minutes before we did. On foot. I didn’t see a car.”

My instincts sharpen.