Page 20

VADKA

I love seeing Ruthie with Luka. There’s something grounding about it, something whole.

Knowing your kid doesn’t have what they need—whether it’s food, shelter, love, security—it breaks something fundamental in you.

A good parent bleeds for their child. We empty our wallets and sacrifice sleep, comfort, even sanity, just to make sure they’re okay.

And since Mariah’s been gone, there’s this one thing—this massive, gaping need in Luka—that I can’t fill, no matter how hard I try.

Because I’m not her.

She was soft where I’m hard. She nurtured where I protect. She was gentle in the spaces I don't even know how to reach.

And Ruthie… damn. I know I’m falling in love with her. It’s impossible not to. Watching her love my son, knowing how de eply she loved my wife—it’s overwhelming. And terrifying.

Because what we have, Ruthie and I, matters. It’s this delicate flicker of warmth in a world that’s been mostly cold and dark since Mariah died. And I’m so afraid that if I move too fast or make the wrong move, I’ll snuff it out. I’ll lose her. And I can’t afford that. I can’t lose Ruthie.

We get to the restaurant, and Ruthie’s a fucking wonder.

Luka’s bouncing around, restless, and she just rolls with it.

She pulls a crayon out from the table setup and starts drawing on the paper placemat—tic-tac-toe and little stick figures.

Then she starts making up this ridiculous story about “King Luka,” brave and bold, ruling over his magical kingdom with his sword forged from dragon bones and his crown made of sunlight.

I sit back in my chair and just watch them.

“Papa,” Luka says, glancing over at me with that grin of his. “Do the voices.”

“Luka… not here. We’re in a restaurant. You’re playing with your aunt?—”

“Papa, please. Do the voices, Papa.”

Ruthie’s eyes sparkle with mischief. She smirks. “Yeah, Papa. Do the voices.”

Jesus Christ. I roll my eyes dramatically, grab a napkin, and wrap it around my finger like a makeshift puppet. And then I’m off—doing this whole ridiculous act with finger puppets and over-the-top voices. Ruthie’s laughing so hard she’s crying, and Luka’s clapping like he’s at a Broadway show .

And you know what?

It feels… nice. It feels like not solo parenting for once. And not because Ruthie’s like Mariah—she’s not. She’s nothing like Mariah. And I have to stop comparing them. Ruthie is Ruthie. And I love her just as she is.

It’s not a new realization. I’ve loved her for a long time…

in different ways. I loved her when she was that awkward, gangly teenager who needed someone—anyone—to love her back.

Back then, I was her sister’s boyfriend.

I was her protector, her pseudo-big brother.

I fought off her bullies, taught her how to drive, and helped her learn how to budget.

With Mariah’s help, we made sure she had everything she needed.

But this? What I feel now? It’s not the same.

And I keep asking myself—do I love her because I’m vulnerable?

The waitress finally brings out our food—burgers and fries stacked high, trays of ketchup on the side. Luka dives in like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“Boy, this guy’s going through a growth spurt,” she says with a grin.

“Tell me about it,” I mutter. “I’m fucked when he’s older.”

She chuckles. “Mariah would’ve killed you for swearing in front of him.”

It’s the first time her name’s been said aloud tonight, and I don’t feel like curling into myself and crying. Progress, I guess .

“Sorry, Luka,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Don’t repeat that word.”

“I know,” he says, chomping on a fry. “I’m not supposed to say fuck .”

Ruthie snorts. Little brat. Pretty sure she swears more than I do.

We’re halfway through dessert when the hairs on the back of my neck lift. That electric, crawling sense that something’s wrong. That someone’s here.

No fucking way . Not now. Not when I’m out with my son and my sister-in-law.

But the Irish—they don’t stop. They don’t quit. And I know that. I know it too damn well. They’ve been too quiet, and I don’t trust it.

I tap the table twice to get Ruthie’s attention. Luka’s happily eating his ice cream. She looks over at me, questioning.

“Stay here a minute? I’ll be right back.”

She tilts her head, brows raised, but I just shake mine once. No. I’m not going to scare her over something that might be nothing. We don’t chase shadows. We don’t breathe life into ghosts.

I take the scenic route to the bathroom, a slow loop around the place. Everything seems fine—until it’s not.

There’s a table in the corner. Four men. Their eyes are locked on me .

I don’t look back. Don’t engage. Just slide my hand to the butt of my pistol, and feel the cool, hard reassurance there. Then I walk straight back to the table, grab my wallet, and throw down some cash.

“We need to go,” I say quietly but firmly. “Right now.”

“Papa—” Luka starts.

“ Now , Luka,” I say, my voice low and sharp.

His lip trembles, but Ruthie doesn’t hesitate. She picks him up like she’s done it a thousand times.

“Listen to your papa,” she says, steady and calm. “Right now.”

The three of us move like a nuclear unit, tight and contained, toward the exit. Behind us—chairs scrape. Shit.

I could take them. Every one of them. But I’ve got Ruthie and Luka with me.

Shit .

I scan the parking garage and spot our car—an SUV, parked next to a van. I did that on purpose. Cover. Options.

“Go to the car,” I say to Ruthie, low and fast. “Immediately. Buckle him in.”

I’m done playing defense. I’m going to be proactive this time.

She starts moving fast, dragging Luka along and holding him tight.

He’s a big kid for his age, and she’s so small—it looks like she’s about to fold under his weight.

I turn, and just like that, I’m face-to-face with two men.

I know instantly: Irish. I can feel it in their stance, see it in their eyes.

Their weapons are already out. I don’t wait. I don’t hesitate.

“Run, Ruthie!” I shout.

Ice in my veins, I pull the trigger.

First one—straight between the eyes. The second—I hit his shoulder. He drops, screaming, and I finish the job. Another shot. Right between the eyes. I walk toward them, pumping lead into their bodies. One after the other. I make sure they stay down. No second chances. No mercy.

They didn’t even have their guns fully drawn. Amateurs . Or maybe they just underestimated me.

The back parking lot’s empty, no witnesses—except one old man sitting in his car, eyes wide, frozen.

He stares at me like he’s seen death walking.

And maybe he has. I rip open my shirt and show him the sign of the Bratva burned into my skin.

Brotherhood. “Fucking leave,” I tell him, voice low and calm.

He nods, peeling off like a scared dog. Good.

No one’s gonna fuck with the Bratva. And even if they do—Rafail has the chief of police tucked in his fucking pocket.

I call Rafail immediately, scanning the area for movement, making sure no one else is stupid enough to come after us.

I fill him in.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“Back to my house.”

I don’t see any sign we were followed. It doesn’t feel like a safe-house call, not yet. But I have a bag packed, ready to go, just in case .

Fucking shit.

I holster my gun and head to the car. Ruthie and Luka are safe… for now. But fuck these people.

I open the driver’s side door—and she’s sitting there. In my seat. “I’ll drive,” she says.

“The fuck you will,” I snap. “Get in the passenger seat.”

She glares. “Are you kidding me? You’ve got adrenaline pumping through your veins like a junkie coming down off a high. It’s not safe for you to drive right now. I’ll drive.”

I exhale hard. She’s right. I hate it, but she’s right. I circle the car, but before I climb in, I lean down. I don’t fucking care anymore. She crossed the line. She needs to know who she’s dealing with.

I pause, then smirk.

“I’ll let you drive for now, little Ruthie. But you’re going over my knee for this. I swear to fuck. This is not how I operate, and?—”

“Threatening me with a good time,” she cuts in with a grin, not missing a beat. But her cheeks are flushed pink.

Fuck my life.

She’s into this.

Damn.

I shut the door behind me and slide into the passenger seat. She’s right—my body’s still humming with adrenaline. I need to cool down. And I need to check in with Rafail again .

“You okay?” I ask her.

“I’m fine,” she says, eyes on the road. “Are you?”

I glance into the back. Luka’s got his headphones on, watching a show on her phone, totally unbothered. Oblivious.

“He didn’t see anything,” she whispers, like she’s trying to believe it herself.

“Fuck.”

“Vadka,” she mutters under her breath. “You really need to stop swearing.”

“I know, I know…”

I check my texts with Rafail. There’s no evidence the Irish are still close, but those two? They felt personal. Too personal. Like they had a vendetta or maybe tied to someone I’ve already put six feet under. Figures. I’ve hosed down half of fucking Ireland at this point. I’m a walking target.

We pull into the driveway. Luka’s head is bobbing. He’s barely awake.

“Stay here tonight,” I say to Ruthie, and I know how it sounds. Like I’m hitting on her by asking her to stay. But it’s not that. Not this time. “Just tonight. I wanna make sure your place is more secure before you go back, okay?”

“Fine. But if you think we’re snuggling in your bed again, think again.”

There’s a flicker of a smile on her lips.

“Of course not. You’ll be in the guest room. It’s a nice one. ”

“I know. Mariah made it that way. She always hoped Mom would come visit.”

But she never did. Not once.

We go inside, and she gets Luka ready for bed while I head to the kitchen.

“You need to check in with Rafail?” she asks, returning, her voice tight, like she’s bracing for something.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

I glance down. Luka’s already clean, teeth brushed, dressed in his little pajamas and clutching his favorite stuffed animal. She did all of it. Quietly. Efficiently. It’s like having another adult around shifted something heavy off my shoulders I didn’t even know I was carrying.

“Yeah. I’m almost done.”

“Okay,” she says softly. “I’m gonna change into something. I probably have clothes here, don’t I?”

Maybe she does.

She used to be here all the time—when Mariah was here.

I sink onto the couch, and she looks back at me.

“You should change into something more comfortable too,” she says.

She’s right. We put Luka to bed and walk to the guest room together, pretending it’s not intimate. Pretending we’re not thinking about what it feels like to be close. To touch .

“Luka’s asleep,” I tell her quietly. “And you… you’re in trouble.”

“We don’t have that kind of relationship,” she says, but the look in her eyes betrays her. She wants to. God, she wants to. “You think you can tell me what to do?”

“All right,” I say, low and deliberate, as I cross the room. “You get dressed. I’ll go change too. Then you’re going to lay yourself over my lap and take what’s been coming to you.”

She just stands there.

Challenging. Smiling that wicked little smile that says she’s not scared of me—no, she wants me to lose control. Wants to see how far I’ll go.

Dangerous little thing.

“Ruthie,” I warn.

She turns, slow as sin, and bends over the dresser. On purpose. Her ass tilts up—taunting me. Daring me.

That’s when I see it. The way her breath catches. The way her thighs part just slightly. The way her hands tighten around the edge of the wood like she’s bracing.

She’s not resisting. She’s offering herself.

The warning slap I meant to give her turns into something else the moment my palm lands. The sound cracks loud—flesh to flesh. She gasps, then moans.

Fuck .

I’m hard instantly .

I watch the ripple of heat across her skin, the way her spine arches, pushing back for more. So I give her more. Another smack. Then another.

By the fourth, she’s panting. Her legs spread wider, shameless now, her hips rocking forward like she needs the friction. My restraint slips. I can’t stop.

“You think this is a game?” I rasp, my voice rough against her ear as I lean in close. I breathe her in—heat, sweat, need. “You like pushing me, baby?”

She nods, breathless, shameless. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I want you to.”

Fucking hell.

My hand comes down again, harder this time, angled to the crease where her ass meets her thigh. Her whole body jolts—then melts into it. She moans again, and it sounds like a prayer.

“Now tell me,” I murmur, lips against her jaw, “are you going to behave yourself?”

“For now,” she says. Still defiant. Still smiling.

I grin. Dark. Dangerous. “Little brat.”

“If I don’t… will you do that again?” she asks, her voice a tease but trembling at the edges.

I grip her hip, fingers digging in. “You do that again,” I growl, “and I’ll take my belt to your ass.”

She shudders—visibly. Not in fear.

In want .

She scrambles to gather her clothes, but her hands are shaking.

“I’m gonna get dressed in the bathroom,” she says, her voice tight. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, soft and serious, “We need to be careful, Vadka.”

I don’t need her to explain. She’s not talking about the Irish. Or any threat outside this door.

She’s talking about us . This. The edge we’re dancing on.

I strip, shirt first. Then pants, the rush still buzzing in my blood like lightning. Mariah’s phone falls from the pocket—thudding against the floor like a verdict.

Guilt flashes through me, sharp and fast.

I pick it up and set it on the dresser.

Then I stare at the ceiling.

What the fuck are we doing?

And why does it feel so good to lose control—only with her?

There’s one new voicemail.

Who even sends those anymore?

Then I remember Ruthie said she left one, and I told her I wouldn’t listen.

But then I see a text too.

So I sit on the bed, thumbing through it. My eyes go wide. My heart beats faster.

Well, damn.