Page 25 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

NIKOLAI

I wake before dawn. Old habits. The weight of Lilly against my chest feels strange.

We’ve never done this before.

Woken up next to each other.

She told me she loved me.

This feels new. The fact of the matter is that she matters. She fucking matters.

And I don’t know where to file this little fact. How to process it.

Finally. She’s mine.

I extract myself carefully, lay her head on a cushion. In the kitchen, I stare at the contents of my fridge like they're written in a foreign language. Never cooked for a kid before. Never had a reason to.

The coffee maker gurgles. My hands move on autopilot, cracking eggs into a bowl. Adding milk. Salt. The mundane tasks feel surreal after last night's bloodshed. My knuckles are scraped. Evidence of what I did to keep them safe.

My son sleeps in the next room.

My son.

The words still feel foreign in my mind.

Like they belong to someone else.

Some other man who deserves this chance.

I hear small footsteps. Hesitant. Curious. I turn to find Chleo standing in the doorway, hair sticking up in all directions. Dinosaur pajamas rumpled from sleep.

“Morning,” I say, voice softer than I knew it could be.

He blinks at me. Studies me with those eyes—my eyes—taking in everything. “Are you making breakfast?”

“Trying to.” I gesture at the eggs. “You like pancakes?”

His whole face lights up. “With chocolate chips?”

“If I have them.” I check the cupboard. Find a bag. Must have been left by the cleaning service. “Looks like you're in luck.”

He climbs onto a stool at the counter. Watches me work.

“Does your mom let you have coffee?” I ask, only half-joking.

He rolls his eyes. Dramatic. Expressive. “I'm five.”

“Right.” I nod solemnly. “Orange juice it is.”

I pour him a glass. Set it in front of him. He takes a sip, leaving a small orange mustache on his upper lip.

“Did you really fight bad guys?” he asks suddenly.

My hands pause over the mixing bowl. “Who told you that?”

“I saw,” he says simply. “At Rosa's. You made the man go away.”

Shit. I thought he hadn't seen the violence. Hoped he hadn't.

“Yes,” I admit. No point lying to him. “I did.”

“Like a superhero?”

I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I measure out flour, trying to decide how much truth this five-year-old can handle.

“Not like a superhero,” I tell him. “Sometimes people do bad things, and other people have to stop them.”

He considers this. Nods like he's processing complex information.

“Can I stir?” he asks, changing subjects with the mercurial ease of childhood.

I hand him the whisk. Watch as his small hand grips it determinedly. He stirs with fierce concentration, tongue peeking out between his teeth.

That's when Lilly appears. Hair tangled. Eyes soft with sleep. She's wearing one of my t-shirts, and it hangs to mid-thigh. Makes her look vulnerable. Beautiful.

“What's all this?” she asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Breakfast!” Chleo announces proudly. “I'm helping.”

Her eyes meet mine over his head. Something passes between us.

An acknowledgment.

A question.

“He's quite the chef,” I say, taking the bowl back. “Takes after his mother.”

Her face softens.

“She burned spaghetti once,” Chleo confirms gravely. “The noodles turned black.”

I bite back a smile. “Impressive.”

“Betrayed by my own flesh and blood,” Lilly sighs, but she's smiling. She ruffles Chleo's hair, then leans against the counter. Watching us. Me.

The kitchen fills with the smell of coffee. Butter melting in the pan. For one strange, suspended moment, it feels normal. Like we're just a family making breakfast. Like I'm not a man with blood on his hands and a price on my head.

I pour batter into the hot pan. Add chocolate chips in the shape of a smiley face. Chleo gasps with delight.

“Can you do a dinosaur?” he asks, bouncing on his stool.

“Not a chance.” I flip the pancake. “But I can do a pretty mediocre circle.”

He laughs. The sound punches through me. Clean. Pure. Something I didn't know I needed to hear.

I stack the pancakes on a plate. Slide it in front of him. Lilly pours herself coffee, and I notice her smile. The horror of yesterday fading. Not gone, but manageable.

“Eat,” I tell them both. “Before it gets cold.”

We sit at the small kitchen table. Chleo drowns his pancakes in syrup. Lilly cuts hers into neat triangles. I watch them both, storing away details.

“So,” I clear my throat. “I had Maksim send some men to check your house. Make sure it's clear.”

Lilly's fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “And?”

“Clean. No sign of them. He's got people watching it, just to be safe.”

She nods, but tension creeps back into her shoulders. “We can't go back, can we? Not really.”

“Not yet,” I admit. “But soon.”

Chleo looks between us, sensing the shift in mood. “Can we go fishing?”

The question comes out of nowhere. Redirects everything.

“Fishing?” Lilly repeats.

“Yeah!” he nods enthusiastically. “Like on TV. Guy stuff.”

My chest tightens.

Guy stuff.

Father-son stuff.

The kind of thing I never had with my own father, who taught me to shoot a gun at eight but never took me fishing.

“I don't know if that's a good idea right now,” Lilly starts, glancing at me.

“I know a place,” I say before I can stop myself. “Private lake. Secluded. Safe.”

Her eyes narrow. Concerned. Protective. “Nikolai?—”

“I'll keep him safe,” I promise, and we both know I mean it. After all, I've already killed to protect him. Would do it again without hesitation. “No one will find us there.”

She hesitates. Torn between fear and the desire to give Chleo some normalcy.

“Please, Mama?” Chleo wheedles. “Please? I wanna do guy stuff with Nikolai.”

Something in her expression breaks. Softens. “Okay,” she says finally. “But you listen to everything Nikolai tells you, understand? No wandering off.”

“I promise!” Chleo pumps his fist in victory.

“I'll protect him with my life,” I tell her quietly when Chleo runs off to get dressed.

She touches my arm.

Light.

Brief.

Electric.

“I know you will.”

An hour later, we're in my car. Fishing gear in the trunk. Snacks packed by Lilly. Chleo strapped into a booster seat in the back, chattering excitedly about what kind of fish we might catch.

I drive carefully. Scanning for tails. For threats. Old habits don't die just because I'm playing dad for a day.

The lake sits hidden in the mountains. Accessible only by a dirt road most locals don't even know exists. I found it my second week in Fern Falls, marking it as a potential escape route if things went south.

Never imagined I'd be bringing my son here.

“Wow!” Chleo's face presses against the window as the lake comes into view. Crystal clear water. Surrounded by pines. Mountain peaks reflected on the surface like a mirror image.

I park near the shore. Pop the trunk. Start unloading gear.

“Have you ever fished before?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. Solemn. “Mama says fish are smelly.”

I laugh. Can't help it. “She's not wrong.”

I set up two chairs at the water's edge. Show him how to bait the hook. His face scrunches in disgust when I spear the worm, but he doesn't back down.

“Your turn,” I say, handing him a baited rod.

His small hands wrap around it. Uncertain. Determined.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Almost.” I kneel beside him. Guide his grip. “Hold it here. And here. That's it.”

I show him how to cast. His first attempt lands three feet away in the shallows. He looks disappointed.

“Not bad,” I tell him. “Try again. Harder this time.”

He frowns in concentration. Swings. The line arcs through the air, splashing down twenty feet out.

“I did it!” he shouts, bouncing on his toes.

“Good job.” Pride surges through me. Unexpected. Powerful. “Now we wait.”

We sit side by side. Rods held over still water. The sun climbs higher, warming the back of my neck. Birds call from the trees. Peaceful. Quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes before violence. Just... quiet.

“Are you hungry?” I ask after an hour passes without a bite.

He nods eagerly. I reach for the cooler Lilly packed. Sandwiches. Juice boxes. Cookies.

We eat, fishing rods propped against our chairs. Chleo gets crumbs all over his shirt. Takes huge bites that barely fit in his mouth.

“Slow down,” I tell him. “Food's not going anywhere.”

He grins, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. I hand him a napkin. He wipes his mouth with exaggerated care.

“Did you know,” he says between bites, “that T-Rex couldn't really roar? They probably sounded like birds.”

“I didn't know that.”

“And they had feathers. Like chickens.” He makes a clucking sound, and I feel my mouth twitch into a smile.

“Smart kid,” I say.

“That's what Mama always says.” He takes a sip of juice. Considering. “Are you really strong?”

“Pretty strong,” I admit.

“Stronger than the bad men?”

The question hits harder than expected. “Yes,” I say. “Stronger than them.”

He nods, satisfied. Goes back to his sandwich. But something's shifted. I can feel a question building in him. Can see it in the way his eyes dart to me and away again.

Finally, he sets down his food. Looks straight at me. “Are you my real dad?”

The world stops. Just for a moment. Everything narrows to this small boy with my eyes, asking the question that changes everything.

I could lie. Could say we'll talk about it when he's older. Could defer to Lilly.

But I don't.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I am.”

He nods. Not surprised. Not upset. Like he's confirming something he already knew.

“I thought so,” he says simply. “You have the same eyes as me.”

“I do.”

“Why didn't you live with us before?”

The question cuts deep. How do I explain five years of absence to a child?

“I was away,” I tell him, settling on the simplest truth.

He accepts this with the easy logic of childhood. “But now you are here. So you can stay.”

It's not a question.

A statement.

A fact in his world.

“I'd like that,” I say, and I mean it more than I've meant anything in my life.

We spend another hour fishing. Actually catch two small trout, which Chleo is both fascinated and disgusted by. I show him how to release them back into the lake, his small hands gentle as he watches them swim away.

By the time we pack up, the sun is starting its descent. Chleo's eyes are heavy.

He falls asleep in the car, head lolling against the booster seat. I drive carefully. One eye on the road. One in the rearview mirror, watching my son sleep.

My son.

The words fit better now. Feel right in a way they didn't this morning.

I find myself imagining what life could be like.

Fishing trips.

School drop-offs.

Teaching him to ride a bike.

Normal things.

Things I never thought I'd have. Things I never thought I'd want.

But I want them. Want them with an intensity that rivals anything I've ever felt.

When we pull up to the cabin, twilight has fallen. The porch light is on. Warm. Welcoming.

I carry Chleo from the car. His head heavy on my shoulder.

That's when I see him.

A figure on the porch. Male. Tall. Familiar.

Ivan.

Lilly's cousin. Bratva ink hidden beneath his collar.

My body tenses. Immediately on alert. Every protective instinct flaring to life.

Ivan's hands are empty. Visible. A deliberate choice to appear non-threatening.

Lilly appears in the doorway behind him. Her face tight with worry.

“Nikolai,” she says, voice carefully controlled. “Ivan has something to tell us.”

I shift Chleo higher on my shoulder. Keep my free hand loose. Ready.

“I'm not here to cause trouble,” Ivan says. “I'm here to warn you.”

My grip tightens on Chleo. Protective. Fierce.

“Why should I trust you?” I ask.

“Because I love my cousin,” he says simply. “And that boy she's been raising alone.”

The quiet simplicity of it rings true. But trust doesn't come easily to men like me.

“Come inside,” Lilly says, stepping forward. “Both of you.”

I hesitate. Weighing risks. Calculating threats.

Chleo stirs against my shoulder. Murmurs something in his sleep.

And suddenly, I know what matters most.

Keeping him safe.

Keeping her safe.

Whatever it takes.

I follow Lilly inside, carrying my sleeping son.

The game has changed. The stakes have risen.

And I'm playing for keeps now.