Page 10 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

LILLY

K ids are sweet, they say.

And my kid? He’s the sweetest.

But he makes me grow my patience every day.

I know he's going to fight me on the dinosaur shirt the second I pull it from his drawer.

“No, Mama,” Chleo crosses his arms like a tiny dictator. “I want the dragon one.”

“The dragon shirt is in the wash, baby.” I hold up the T-rex instead. “How about this fierce guy?”

Those stormy green eyes—so familiar they sometimes stop my heart—narrow with five-year-old suspicion. “T-Rex has tiny arms. Dragons breathe fire.”

The tone? Dead serious. The logic? Flawless.

And God help me, he looks just like his father when he’s questioning bullshit.

“T-rex has giant teeth,” I counter. “And he's the king of all dinosaurs.”

Chleo tilts his head, thinking it over.

The resemblance hits hard.

That same calculating stare. The same way of sizing up the world—like he’s not five, like he’s planning a goddamn takeover. Just like his father.

And it guts me every time.

But then he grins. Pure sunshine. All mine and my chest unclenches.

“Okay, but can we roar like dinosaurs at the ducks?”

“Deal.”

I wrestle him into the shirt. Smooth out that dark, unruly hair. And before I can say sunblock, he’s off. Sprinting toward the kitchen. Begging me to hurry. There are ducks to feed.

Five years in Fern Falls, and mornings like this still feel like miracles.

I lay out the cinnamon rolls and fruit.

“Can I have two?” he asks, pointing at the cinnamon rolls.

“One now, one later.”

Too much sugar and he turns into a little monster.

He takes a massive bite, getting frosting on his nose. “The baby ducks are getting bigger.”

“They are. Pretty soon they'll be as big as their mama.”

“Will I be as big as you someday?”

The question hits me sideways. I ruffle his hair, ignore the way my throat tightens. “Bigger. Much bigger.”

He'll be tall like his father.

Broad-shouldered.

Dangerous.

I shake off the thought. Chleo isn't dangerous. He's sweet and funny. Helps old Mrs. Smith carry her groceries from the car without having to be asked.

He hates loud voices. Any display of aggression.

He’s a child. Innocent and pure.

Nothing like the man who gave him those eyes.

“Finish up, troublemaker. The ducks are waiting.”

Fern Falls on a Sunday morning is everything Chicago never was.

Quiet. Safe. The kind of place where kids ride bikes without helmets and mothers don't check over their shoulders every five minutes.

The park sits in the center of town, surrounded by beautiful mountains. Protected. Hidden.

Chleo takes off toward the pond with the bag of day-old bread. He runs like the world’s safe. And for his sake, I pretend it is.

I follow behind at a slower pace, nodding to the families already scattered along the water’s edge.

“Morning, Lilly!” calls Sarah, whose twin girls are Chleo's age. “How's the bakery?”

“Busy,” I lie with a smile. Truth is, I'm one bad month away from closing. But Fern Falls doesn't need to know that.

“We'll stop by later for those chocolate chip cookies. Emma's been asking for them all week.”

“I'll save her the biggest ones.”

Chleo's already tossing bread to the ducks, laughing as they paddle over in a frenzy. Three ducklings come swimming behind their mother.

“Look, Mama! The babies remember me!”

“They love you.” I smile.

This is the life I built. Peaceful mornings and safe places and a son who thinks the world is magic.

No Bratva.

No blood.

No men with brass knuckles and eyes like winter storms.

“Can we get a duck?” Chleo asks.

“Ducks need ponds and other ducks. They'd be sad in our little house.”

“What about a dog?”

“Dogs need yards.”

“What about a fish?”

I laugh, pulling him against my side. “Maybe a fish.”

He leans into me, warm and solid and mine. “I love you, Mama.”

“I love you too, baby. More than all the stars.”

It's our thing. Our ritual. The way we say how much we love each other.

The mountains rise around us like guardians. This place makes me feel like we're untouchable here.

But there’s work to be done. We pack up. Say goodbye to the ducks. Head over to my bakery.

Sunday afternoons at Sugar and Spice are my favorite. Slow days. Families walk in. No one’s in a rush. No one’s hurling abuses for quicker service.

Once at the bakery, Chleo sits at the corner table with his coloring books. I prep for tomorrow.

It’s not much, my bread and butter.

Just a small storefront with a good coffee machine and mismatched chairs.

But it's mine.

Every crooked tile, every hand-painted sign, every recipe I perfected. All mine.

“Mama, can I help with the cookies?” Chleo abandons his dinosaur coloring page.

“Wash your hands first.”

He drags the step stool to the sink. Makes a production of scrubbing his little fingers. I watch him with love. And like every time, it’s followed with terror.

He's smart. Too smart sometimes. Last week he asked why we don't have any pictures of his daddy.

I told him some families are just mamas and babies because the daddies are away. I hated lying, but he accepted it with five-year-old trust.

He asked where he was. Where away was. I pretended I heard the doorbell ring.

It terrifies me.

I hate lying to the kid.

But what else is a woman to do?

Those questions will get harder, I know. And those eyes—God, those eyes—will start demanding real answers.

But until then, I try to make time stop. Try to not think. Try to take it one day at a time.

“All clean!” He presents his hands for inspection.

“Perfect. You can help me roll the snickerdoodles.”

We work in comfortable silence, flour dusting everything within a three-foot radius of Chleo. He's careful with the dough, tongue poking out in concentration.

“Mrs. Patterson says I'm a good helper,” he tells me.

“You are the best helper.”

“She says her grandson in Denver is my age, but he doesn't know how to crack eggs.”

“Everyone learns different things.”

“Did my daddy know how to crack eggs?”

The question comes out of nowhere, freezing me mid-roll. “I... I don't know, baby.”

“Do you miss him?”

Miss him?

I dream about him.

I wake up aching for hands that touched me like I was holy and profane at the same time.

I see tall strangers on the street and my heart stops until I realize it's not him.

But missing implies loss, and you can't lose something that was never really yours.

“It's complicated,” I say finally.

“When I'm bigger, will you tell me?”

When he's bigger. When his hands grow strong enough to break things.

“Maybe,” I whisper. I feel my throat clench. “Just…take over, will you? I need to go out back.”

My throat is all clenched up. I need a moment to calm down. A moment to make him forget any more questions. To distract him.

I make my way to the pantry. Watch over him through the glass peephole. Collect some more sugar, more flour. Might as well, while I’m in here.

But then, the bell above the door chimes, and I look out the glass. To see who it is.

And my world stands still.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, my feet, my legs that crumble like dry buttered bread.

For right there, in my haven of work, stands the shadow of my past himself.

Nikolai Vetrov.

The same slicked-back hair.

The same gait, like he owns the damn place.

The same green tiger eyes.

He’s dressed in Armani. Time hasn’t touched him—just sharpened the edges.

His eyes scan the room and my breaths begin to flutter. It’s not me I fear for.

I’m out back, behind the swing door, breath catching.

Those eyes land on Chleo.

My son.

His son.

And he doesn’t even know it.

Not yet.

But he might soon.

The devil just walked into my quiet little life.

And he’s looking straight at the reason I’ve been hiding.