Page 110

My glare drops, and I raise a brow. “You wouldn’t for yours?”

“I’d paymillions—motherfucking plural—for Neomi.” He cuts a look from her to me. “You’re in that same club.” He scrubshis hands together. “Though words of advice: get that balance paid. I have never and will never trust Yaroslav and his weird-ass son. Never trustanyonewhen it comes to the woman you love, let alone them.”

I motion toward the door. “You can leave. I got this covered.”

He chuckles. “I can’t wait for the reality to bite you in the ass.” He pats me on the back. “Have fun babysitting. Something happens to my wife, you won’t be alive long enough to worry about the Russians.”

There should bea research study done on how I went from Mafia capo to playing babysitter at a women's and children’s shelter.

I stand to the side, watching as Genesis introduces Neomi and her sisters to the shelter staff and then leads them into the kitchen. Three other people are working, preparing breakfast, while another sets out a row of chocolate milk cartons.

I take a look around the kitchen, realizing Genesis was right when she said they needed all the funding they could get. From the number of residents I’ve seen staying here, this amount of food won’t last them long.

The bananas are on their last few days.

I’ll have to fix that.

Behind the scenes, of course.

Genesis can’t know I’m doing shit out of the kindness of my heart.

She’ll try to pull someaw, romanticshit, like she did this morning. She’s lucky I didn’t catch that towel on fire and throw it at her.

Neomi and her sisters start cutting fruits and veggies while I follow Genesis back into the classroom we went in before. She unlocks a desk drawer and drags out a thick binder, dropping it onto the desk with a thud.

I stroll across the room, sit in a chair, and drum my fingers along my chin. “I’m ready for class, Miss Astor.”

I have to bite my tongue from calling herMrs. Bellini.

She opens the binder, her eyes serious as they train on me. “Today’s class will be different. It’s a kids’ day.”

I cock my head to the side, not understanding.

“My students are children,” she says slowly, as if I need an extra moment to comprehend.

Before I can reply, kids start walking in, consuming the classroom.

If I have my guess, most of them are preteen to teenagers.

“Yo, Ms. Genesis!” one kid says, throwing a hacky sack in the air. “I saw you on TV. Don’t worry; I ain’t believing shit that comes out of those old-ass newscasters’ mouths.”

“Nate!” Genesis scolds. “Language.”

“You want me to beat them up?” a blonde girl asks. “I’ve been working on my right hook.”

“No, you should let me write a story about them,” another girl says, wearing a Looney Tunes T-shirt. “Show them how real journalism is done.”

Genesis motions for them to take their seats. “While I appreciate all the support, I am fine, and no violence or stories about them, okay? They’re just doing their job.”

“Who’s this sucker?” a kid with a Mohawk asks, pointing at me while taking the seat beside me. “Aren’t you a little old to be learning your ABCs, bro?”

Another girl snorts while three other kids burst out laughing.

Genesis covers her mouth, like she’s trying her hardest not to laugh.

What the fuck?

She didn’t tell me I’d come to the shelter and volunteer to be bullied.