Page 31 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

NIKOLAI

T he abandoned storage facility looms ahead like a concrete tomb.

Rust-eaten and forgotten.

Perfect for what we need to do today. Ivan sits beside me in the passenger seat. Fingers drumming against his knee. Nervous energy. He should be. We're about to face down the devil and ask for terms.

“You sure about this?” I ask, killing the engine.

Ivan nods. “Boris will listen. He's reasonable. For a Kozlov.”

“Reasonable” isn't a word I associate with the family that sent men to terrorize my son. My woman. My life.

But here we are.

I check the manila envelope on the backseat. Insurance. Leverage. Justice.

“Let's go,” I say.

The air inside the facility smells like dust and neglect. I scan for cameras. Exits. Ambush points.

A man emerges from the shadows. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Expensive suit that doesn't belong in this decay.

Boris Kozlov. Viktor's cousin. The reasonable one, according to Ivan. A representative for the family.

Two bodyguards flank him. Obviously armed. Prepared.

So am I. My Glock presses against my lower back. Comforting.

“Ivan,” Boris nods. “You said this was important.”

His eyes slide to me. Cold. Calculating. Untrusting. “Vetrov.”

“Kozlov.”

No handshakes. No pretense of civility. Just recognition of the blood between us.

“This way,” Boris gestures toward a metal table set up in the center of the room. Four folding chairs. A single fluorescent light dangling overhead.

We take our seats across from each other. A chessboard with human pieces.

“You killed my cousin,” Boris says.

I don't flinch. Don't deny it. “I did.”

“Three bullets to the chest,” he continues. “In front of witnesses.”

“Should have been more.”

Boris's jaw tightens. One of his guards shifts his weight. Hand drifting toward his holster.

Ivan clears his throat. “We're here to settle this, Boris. Peacefully.”

“Peace?” Boris laughs. Cold. Empty. “He murdered my blood.”

I slide the manila envelope across the table. “Your brother murdered fifteen people. Women. Children. For a real estate deal.”

Boris doesn't touch the envelope. Just stares at it like it might bite.

“Open it,” I say.

He hesitates, then nods to one of his men. The guard steps forward, flips the envelope open. Spills its contents across the metal surface.

Photos. Reports. Evidence.

The guard's face pales.

“What is this?” Boris asks.

“The truth,” I say. “About what Viktor did.”

I reach across, flip through the photos until I find the one I want. Push it toward him with one finger.

A small body. Charred beyond recognition. Except for the pink shoes, somehow untouched by the flames.

“Three years old,” I tell him. “Her name was Sophie. She was playing with dolls when the fire started.”

Boris stares at the photo. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes.

“My cousin did this?” His voice has dropped. Quieter now.

“He ordered it,” I confirm. “Set fire to an apartment building because the owners wouldn't sell. Fifteen dead. Five of them children. Eight women. All innocent.”

I push another photo forward. The building. Flames reaching toward the sky.

“Your family's mark was left at the scene. Your raven. Your fire.” I lean forward. “Is this what the Kozlov name stands for now? Burning children alive?”

Boris looks up. Something flickers across his face. Disgust. Shame, maybe.

“I have a daughter,” he says finally. “Four years old.”

I hadn't known that. It's not in any of our files on the Kozlovs.

“She likes the color pink?” I ask.

He nods. Once. Barely perceptible.

“I didn't know,” he says. “About the fire. About the children. Viktor handled that side of business.”

“Now you do know,” I push the rest of the photos toward him. “This is what your brother was. What he did in your family's name.”

Boris looks through the photos slowly. Deliberately. His face hardens with each one.

“These go to the FBI if we don't reach an agreement today,” I tell him. “Your family's name attached to fifteen murders. Including children.”

“You'd destroy us all.”

“If I have to.”

He sits back. Studies me. “What do you want, Vetrov?”

“Peace,” I say simply. “For my family. For myself.”

“You want me to forget you killed my brother.”

“I want you to acknowledge he deserved it.”

Silence stretches between us. Taut as piano wire.

Then Boris does something unexpected. He nods.

“If this is true,” he taps the photos, “then yes. He deserved it.”

Relief floods through me. Carefully masked.

“But a blood debt is still owed,” he continues. “Family for family.”

My hand moves toward my gun. I'm not leaving this place without assurance my family is safe.

“The debt is paid,” Ivan interrupts. “With Viktor's death. If what Nikolai says is true, your brother disgraced your family name. Brought shame to the Kozlovs.”

Boris considers this. Eyes never leaving mine.

“There's one condition,” he says finally. “We stay out of the mountains, you stay out of the city.”

Territory lines. Clear boundaries. It's more than I hoped for.

“And my family?” I ask. “They're untouchable.”

“As is mine,” Boris counters.

I nod slowly. “Agreed.”

“Then we have a deal.” He stands. “The blood debt is settled. Your hands are clean, Vetrov.”

I stand too. Don't offer my hand. Don't smile. Just nod once in acknowledgment.

“These never reach the FBI,” he says, gathering the photos.

“As long as our agreement holds,” I confirm. “But I need my name cleared in Chicago. Can’t have cops looking over for me.”

He pauses, one photo still on the table. The little girl. Sophie.

“My brother was sick,” he says quietly. “I didn't see it. I’ll make sure the FBI know he acted alone. Make sure they realize he wasn’t a part of the family. Hadn’t been for years.” He looks at me pointedly.

“I was shocked too, to hear he did this,” I say with a small smile. “Viktor was always deranged. The family never stood for it.”

He nods. We’re in agreement.

For a moment, he's just a man. Not a mob boss. Not an enemy. Just a father, looking at another father's loss.

“I'll take care of this,” he tucks the photos away. “Make it right with the families. As much as can be made right.”

“Do that.”

He leaves without another word. His guards follow, eyes never leaving us until they disappear into the shadows.

Ivan exhales beside me. “Jesus. I thought we were dead for sure.”

“Not today,” I say, though I'd calculated our odds at fifty-fifty walking in.

We drive back in silence. My mind racing ahead to Lilly. To Chleo. To what this means for us.

Peace.

A chance at normal.

A future that doesn't involve looking over my shoulder every second.

The bakery comes into view. Sugar and Spice. Warm lights. Inviting. Home.

“You should be the one to tell her,” Ivan says as we park. “About the agreement.”

“We'll tell her together,” I say. “She deserves the whole truth. From both of us.”

Lilly's face when we walk in is cautious. Hopeful. Scared.

“Well?” she asks, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. “What happened?”

“It's done,” I tell her, pulling her close. “We have peace.”

Her body sags against mine in relief. Then she turns to Ivan, questions in her eyes.

“I need to tell you something,” he says. “Should have told you years ago.”

We sit at one of the small tables. Lilly listens as Ivan explains everything. His connection to the Bratva. How he tried to get out. How he came to Fern Falls to start over.

“I kept it from you to protect you,” he finishes. “I'm sorry.”

She's silent for a long moment. Processing. Then she reaches across the table, takes his hand.

“You're family,” she says simply. “That doesn't change.”

The forgiveness in her voice makes my chest tight. This is who she is. Forgiving. Loving. Loyal.

“I'm leaving,” Ivan says. “Going back to Chicago. Just for a while.”

Her hand tightens on his. “Why?”

“To make sure the peace holds,” he explains. “To finish cutting ties. To make a clean break.”

She nods, understanding in her eyes. “And then?”

“Then I find my own Fern Falls,” he smiles. “My own fresh start.”

He stands. Hugs her tight. Whispers something in her ear that makes her eyes fill with tears.

Then he turns to me. Extends his hand.

I take it. Grip firm. A promise between us.

“Take care of them,” he says.

“With my life,” I promise.

He nods. Satisfied. Then heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

“I won’t be back. Will never bring trouble at your door. I've made peace with the devil to protect heaven,” he says, looking back at me, then Lilly. “Worth every sacrifice.”

And then he's gone.

Lilly's arms slide around my waist. Her head rests against my chest.

“Is it really over?” she asks.

I kiss the top of her head. Breathe in the scent of her. Vanilla. Cinnamon. Home.

“Yes,” I tell her. “It's over.”

And for the first time since I put three bullets in Viktor Kozlov's chest, I believe it.