Page 19

Now I can’t delete it.

Panic rises like fire in my chest.

“You stupid motherfucking?—”

So I go nuclear. I press the power button and hold it down until the screen goes black. Power off. Power down.

I’m breathing like I just ran a marathon. My hands are shaking. Okay. Okay. Let’s be rational.

First—even if it sent, what are the chances he sees it immediately?

Second—if you shut off the phone, doesn’t that stop the message from going through?

Third—what’s the worst that could happen?

Worst case? He reads it. He realizes I’m crushing on him. And he doesn’t feel the same way.

Fuck. My. Actual. Life .

I power the phone back on. My stomach flips over itself. I open messages.

And scream. Out loud.

“No! Oh my god.”

The message sent. The fucking message sent. Shit, shit, fuck, shit.

I dial Vadka. Fast. I have to get to the house. I have to find her phone. I have to delete the message. I try to delete it on my end, but all it says is:

“This message may not be deleted by all parties.”

Perfect. Fucking useless.

He answers, all calm and casual.

“Hey, what’s up? We haven’t left yet. Are you okay?”

God, of course that’s his first thought.

Are you okay?

Yeah. I’m fine.

No. I’m not.

“Why don’t I just come to your house? You don’t have to pick me up for dinner. We can do something else.”

There.

“Well,” he says slowly. “I already promised Luka I’d take him to the place with the french fries and the animal-shaped milk cups.”

“…There’s a place that has animal-shaped milk cups? ”

I want one.

Shit. Focus.

“That’s cool. But we can head back to the house after, if you want. Hang out for a bit, maybe watch a movie. Put him to bed, you know? Let it feel like dinner time, not just some rushed afternoon.”

So I send Zoya a quick SOS message and tell her as much as I can.

Zoya

Oh god. I’m on it. I know he still has her phone and I might be able to locate it because Rafail tracks all of them and she was on our family plan. Stay calm.

Okay, this might work out. I can do this.

I’m staring out my window, nerves coiled tight, when I finally see them. Vadka’s just pulling up, and before I can even get to the door, I see him already out of the car, unbuckling Luka from his seat. And—wait. Is Luka holding flowers?

Oh my god. He is. That little boy is actually holding flowers.

I open the door, and there he is, standing with a proud little grin, a colorful bouquet in his tiny hands, and Vadka just behind him, looking… a little sheepish . Which, honestly, might be the most shocking part. I’ve never seen him with such boyish charm.

“Vadka,” I say, smiling even as my heart does this slow, weightless somersault. “I would've come out to the car. You didn’t have to unbuckle him and all that. ”

Vadka shrugs, serious. His brow creases as he ruffles Luka’s hair, that quiet, protective energy radiating off him naturally. My throat tightens. Somehow, seeing the way he is with this little boy makes my own need to be protected, cared for, and cherished heighten.

“I need to teach him how to be a man,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “A real man doesn’t wait curbside for his woman. He goes to the door. Luka—open the door for your auntie. Let her have a seat.”

My heart does a full-on collapse.

“That’s right,” Luka says, nodding solemnly, like he’s practiced the line a dozen times. “And brings her flowers. You look so pretty, Auntie. So, so pretty.”

He hands me the bouquet, beaming, that one dimple of his popping like a secret weapon he absolutely knows how to use. I crouch down, kiss his sweet cheek, and wrap him in a hug that I never want to let go.

“You picked these out for me?”

“No,” he says honestly, like kids do. “Papa did. But he told me to bring them to you.”

I try to bite back my smile, but it still breaks through. I glance up at Vadka and swear— swear —he’s blushing .

This massive, tattooed, leather-jacket-wearing, motorcycle-riding badass enforcer is blushing on my front stoop because his son just outed him as soft and sweet.

My damn heart.

“Well, please tell your papa they’re beautiful,” I say, winking at Luka .

“She says they’re beautiful!” Luka yells up to Vadka, bouncing like a pogo stick.

“I heard her,” Vadka replies, voice low and smooth but laced with warmth only Luka can bring out.

He winks at me, and the flutter it ignites low in my stomach is immediate and dangerous.

“Let’s get these in some water. I’ll put them in a vase and be right back—then we can grab dinner.

I heard this place has animal-shaped cups? ”

Luka lights up. “Animal cups!”

Seriously, are kids this easy to please?

“We’ll go with you,” Vadka says, trailing after us.

I don’t want them to come in though. I haven’t tidied up.

Mariah used to rag on me for being messy—always immaculate, always put-together, like a living Pinterest board—but I’m not a total disaster.

There’s a laundry basket I haven’t folded, a couple of glasses in the sink, a leaning tower of unopened mail, and, yeah, some shopping bags I haven’t gone through.

It’s… lived-in. Not gross or even chaos.

While I’m fussing with the flowers, I catch Vadka staring at my front door like it personally offended him. He touches the lock and glances at the windows, assesses the doorframe with that stern look that tells me he’s not happy.

“This is your lock?” he asks, like I just told him I leave my door open at night.

“What?”

“I could get through this with one of Luka’s plastic hammers. This is not okay. ”

I roll my eyes, exhaling hard. “Didn’t you say the threat from the Irish wasn’t real?”

“No,” he snaps, eyes going dark and stormy. “I said that particular lead is a red herring. But you are absolutely in danger, Ruthie. We’ve had guards on you.”

I freeze. “When were you planning on telling me that?”

“Today,” he says, shaking his head like he’s already tired of the conversation. “They started last night. But this lock? No. This isn’t amateur hour. I’m gonna talk to your landlord.”

“ I can talk to my landlord.”

“You can. But I’ll get it done faster. And before you hit me with that ‘strong woman’ argument, remember?—”

“This is the biggest bed I’ve ever seen!” Luka shouts from the bedroom, suddenly airborne on my mattress, bouncing like he has springs in his feet. I gasp.

“Oh my god, Luka—don’t do that! You could fall!” I start toward him.

“Luka!” Vadka’s dad voice cuts through the room, sharp and commanding. “Get down. Now .”

Luka flops onto his butt, wide-eyed, lower lip already trembling. “I just wanted to jump,” he says in a small voice.

Vadka strides over, kneels, and wraps his arms around him in one swift, protective move.

“I know, bud. But you could get hurt. Badly. I had a cousin fall off a bed and break his collarbone.”

“His what?” Luka asks, eyes wide.

“This bone.” Vadka touches Luka’s shoulder gently. “It’s not fun. You’d be in pain and stuck in a sling for weeks.”

Luka’s lip starts to wobble again. “But I wanna.” He scowls. “You can’t make me not jump on the bed!”

Oh no. Here it comes.

“It’s my bed,” I say firmly, stepping in. “And if your papa says you can’t jump, then you can’t jump. Even if he said yes, I’d still say no. That’s not what beds are for.”

He launches into a mini tantrum, limbs flailing, noises dramatic and relentless.

Vadka scoops him up again, holding him close, his jaw tight and eyes clouded.

I see it—the razor’s edge of his restraint.

I remember Mariah telling me how she’d sit with Luka during moments like this, helping Vadka soften the sharp edges and unlearn the violence passed down like a curse.

He’s come so far. People love to villainize men who lose control, even for a second, but I understand the pressure. Parenting is brutal. Constant. Unrelenting. And sometimes it feels like your very sanity is splintering.

“You alright?” I ask gently, remembering what Mariah said about standing beside him in these moments.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quietly.

I know better.

We’ll talk about it later. We need to. I think it might help both of us.

“I’ve had a lot of practice by now,” he says eventually, his voice low. “And honestly? It’s unrealistic to expect kids to control their emotions when the adults raising them can’t even control their own.” He smirks. “I’m not bothered by a little ball of unrestrained emotional energy.”

Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind.

He settles Luka on his knee, meeting his gaze evenly. “But listen. If you don’t behave, we’re not going to that restaurant. We’ll go home. You’ll eat, and then it’s straight to bed. No animal cups. No shows. No dessert.”

Oof. He’s playing hardball.

“But I?—”

“Luka.” Vadka interrupts, his tone unrelenting. “You heard me.”

Luka pouts, but he nods. The tantrum dissolves, and the storm passes.

And me? I’m just standing there, watching the man I might be falling for turn into the kind of father his son can rely on.

And I think it’s kind of absurd—no, it is absurd—that some parents expect their kids to have this airtight control over their emotions when they can’t even regulate their own for five damn minutes.

Like, really? You're throwing tantrums in traffic, but your kid’s not allowed to cry about being told "no"? Come on. Meanwhile, I’m over here like, I can schedule my emotions.

Compartmentalize like a pro. Lock them up, put them in a box, label it with a smile, and keep moving.

Vadka continues in that deep, composed voice of his, “But if you don’t behave yourself at that restaurant, you know what happens. ”

He gives Luka a look—one of those silent, steady ones that cuts right through any argument before it’s even formed—and Luka doesn’t say a word. Not one. Just nods with a little pout.

Vadka doesn’t trust the moratorium on Luka’s fit. Something tells me this comes from personal experience.

And I can’t explain it—god, I wish I could—but seeing a man in control like that? That balance of stern and soft, of authority laced with love? It melts me. Completely. It unravels something inside me that I didn’t even know was tightly wound.

Maybe it’s because I never had that. Maybe it’s because that was the kind of love I craved as a kid—unshakable, certain, strong. I didn’t have so much as a father figure or mother who was actively involved in my life. I was either flying solo or under Mariah’s care until Vadka came around.

It’s why I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t meant to be a mother. I’m not wired for it. I’m not soft in the ways children need, and I don’t want to do more harm than good. I’ve always believed I wouldn’t make a suitable mom.

“I disagree,” Mariah once told me. “You already know how to love unconditionally, and that’s the important part. Maybe the most important.”

I wanted to believe her. I did. But I’m not sure she was right.

I watch Vadka take little Luka to the bathroom before we go, and I take a minute to breathe deeply and think.

Lately, I’ve been keeping my distance from Vadka.

Things were starting to feel… too familiar.

Too comfortable. Too flirty. And that’s not safe.

Not for him. Not for me. That ni ght in the safe house—if he had touched me, really touched me, not a chaste hug or brotherly kiss on the cheek—would I have stopped him?

Would I have wanted to?

No . Dammit, I wouldn’t have.

Every time I’m near him, it’s like my skin’s on fire.

My heart kicks up, and this strange, almost teenage version of me takes over—cool, flirty, reckless.

I’ve never looked at him this way before.

Not until recently. But the cruel truth is this: He’s not married anymore.

And how do you not fall in love with someone who so effortlessly loves the people you care about most?

I love seeing Luka. I do. But I know it’s better—safer—if I keep my distance from his father.

“I want to have french fries,” Luka says, walking back in the room and sticking out his lower lip like a little duckbill, all pout and stubborn charm.

“Then are you going to behave?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “Or do you need to go home and sit in your bed instead?”

Luka squirms in place, shifting from one foot to the other like a tiny ball of restless energy. But there’s no possible way I could win an argument with Vadka if I tried—never mind this little boy. Luka’s good. A bit wild sometimes, sure, but good. He’s got that strong will but a soft heart.

“Fine,” he says finally, exhaling like it’s costing him something enormous. “I’ll be good. Can I jump just one more time, please? ”

Vadka’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. He shakes his head slowly, then releases his boy’s tiny hand. “One more jump,” he agrees, pointing at the bed. “But jump toward me, okay? So I can catch you if you fall.”

“All right, Auntie Ruthie?” Luka asks, wide-eyed.

Why is that the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen?

He runs and jumps in the middle of the bed, arms flying out, aiming straight for Vadka. And like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Vadka catches him in mid-air and cradles him against his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of Luka’s hair.

It’s one of those stupidly soft moments that hits hard. So goddamn cute it hurts a little.

And then I remember the text. And the voicemail.

“Hey… do you ever check Mariah’s phone anymore?” I ask him quietly.

He shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t check it. But I still listen to her voicemail sometimes.” There’s a pause, then, “She doesn’t get anything anymore. No messages, no voicemails. Even when she was still here, it was always just you.”

“Okay. Well, I may have left her a voicemail. I miss her, and I—” My throat tightens.

“It’s alright,” he says softly. “I won’t listen.”

I try to breathe a sigh of relief, but it doesn’t come easy.

I don’t tell him about the text. I can’t.

I don’t know if I’m actually relieved. And then my phone buzzes with a message from Zoya.

Zoya

Located Mariah’s phone.

And the follow-up comes fast:

Zoya

It’s in his pocket.

Fuck my life.