Page 8

"Look at you, all grown up and mature." He shakes his head.

"Shut up," I tell him. But I can't help my smile, adding, “You still remember that night? You had to come get me because I ran out of gas on the highway?”

His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. He remembers.

“You didn’t just run out of gas,” he says, his voice low and rough. “You called us crying. Said someone was following you.”

Us. I called Mariah and Vadka. My anchors.

Heat floods my face, but I still laugh. “I wasn’t crying ,” I lie, even though we both know the truth.

His smile deepens, those gorgeous lips tilting in a way that makes my stomach knot. “You were terrified.”

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just a bittersweet memory.

“You always came when I called you,” I say, quieter.

“Of course I did,” he adds, softer now. Serious. For a second, the air between us vibrates. “You were just a kid then.”

Neither of us talks.

I’m not anymore .

"Do you actually change your car oil and check your tires now?" he asks, smirking.

I don't tell him that, no, I'm still absolute shit with my car.

“Well…”

He smiles and shakes his head. "I gotta get back to work."

"What's going on? Is everything okay?"

I hear things at the bar sometimes—before the Kopolovs do—but not always.

He looks away and blows out a breath. "We're not entirely sure yet."

"Is it the Irish?"

The Irish mob, Keenan McCarthy’s Clan, were the ones who killed my sister. They're not welcome in the bar anymore. None of them. As soon as I hear the accent, I look for the tattoo that marks them as McCarthy—but no one's come in for months.

"Yeah."

But when he doesn't offer any more information, I don't push. "Tell me if you need me."

I can at least spy—though not from the bar.

"Of course."

Then he's gone—without a backward glance or a word. Just gone. And again, it feels like I pick up the weight of my grief.

But when I go to find Luka, Grandfather is in the kitchen too. Savva Kopolov is everyone's grandpa. I'm happy to see him.

"Ruthie," he says with a bright smile that makes his eyes twinkle at the edges. "It's a delight to see you. How are you?"

God, he’s so cute.

He asks in a way that isn’t fake but shows genuine concern.

I smile at him. "I'm great," I lie. "Better since I spent a little time with this guy." I ruffle Luka’s hair.

He nods softly. He understands.

“It's hard—seeing the people who remind you of the ones you've lost.”

I answer quietly, "I know."

"But I heard you stayed at work, sweetheart. That’s brave of you. I’m not sure I could’ve done that myself."

I shrug. I’m not sure how “brave” I am.

"Yeah, I did. But I have a home there. And, you know, I can do hard things and all that."

He lays a heavy, bony hand on top of mine.

"I know. I know you. And I'm proud of you."

Proud of you. There's a shortage of people in this world who have said, I'm proud of you . And it makes me feel damn good.

I lean in and kiss his papery cheek. "Thank you." He smells like mint toothpaste and aftershave .

"Zoya and I were just looking over these nannies who are applying to work with Luka," he says, frowning.

“Vadka asked me to take a look.”

"We had four people," Zoya says, "but one canceled, so now we have three."

"You think they got the memo about what happened to the other nanny?" Grandfather asks.

"Yeah," I say softly.

"I wish I could…” Zoya begins.

"No." Grandfather shakes his head. "I know you care about them.

I know you'd be excellent with Luka, but you have a future, and you can't always be the one who fills in the gaps when someone is needed, Zoya.

You've been a little mother since you were a child, and you like taking care of people, but it's important to bring someone else in for this. And Rafail said no.”

If Rafail said no, all bets are off. The pakhan makes the final call.

I shrug a shoulder. "Well, I like the idea of her working with Luka."

Zoya smiles. "That's just because you're a little territorial about who works with him."

I shrug again. So what if I am? He’s my sister's child. Not everyone is capable of giving him what he needs.

Zoya looks at her screen. "Okay, here's the first. Older, retired schoolteacher. Gets excellent reviews, though people say she's very strict with the kids and kind of old-school."

She shows me a picture of a woman who looks like she could be retired military, not a retired schoolteacher. Short, severe gray hair. I shiver. She reminds me of a grade school teacher I had who used to make us stand in the corner if we sniffled too loudly.

"Next," I say.

Smirking, Zoya pulls up the second. "This one doesn't have a lot of experience, but she has three grown children, and her last nannying job ended because the child went to school. She seems nice enough, but I can’t get the references to respond."

"Right," I murmur. "How long was she with the last family?"

Zoya glances over her notes. "Like three months."

"And that's the only experience she's ever had?"

Zoya nods. "Looks like it."

I frown. "Let's look at the third one, please."

She pulls up the next one. "Now, this one has four years of nannying experience.

Her record checks out excellent. She studied early childhood education in college, and she has a perfectly clean background—not even so much as a speeding ticket.

And she's available for all the hours he needs, unlike the other two who have limited availability. "

"Sounds perfect," I say, leaning over. "Can I see her picture?"

Zoya flicks to the image on the computer screen, and an absolutely stunning bombshell of a woman pops up.

Even dressed conservatively, she has huge, voluptuous breasts—breasts I would fucking kill for.

Her long, thick hair is pulled into a braid, and her face is perfectly symmetrical, with delicately arched eyebrows, a small nose, warm golden-brown eyes, and full lips pulled back across perfectly straight, white teeth.

There's no fucking way I want that woman around my brother-in-law, flashing those huge tits in front of him.

I frown. "I think the retired schoolteacher sounds perfect."

"Really?" Zoya asks, tipping her head. "Are you sure you're not letting your own prejudices make the decision here? The last one sounds perfect."

That last one is going to saunter into his life while Vadka is desperate and vulnerable, and the next thing I know, he's going to be kissing her in the laundry room. No fucking way. I shake my head.

"She's temptation on a stick, Zoya."

Zoya's eyebrows rise, and she looks at me in silence for a full minute before she finally nods.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," she says cryptically.

“There’s a reason there are romance books about nannies and single dads, Zoya.”

Grandfather sounds like he's either coughing or laughing, but I can't tell because he's buried his face in a cup of coffee.

"I'll call her for an interview," I say. "Thank you."

I feel a little guilty. Maybe brunette Barbie would be perfect for Luka, but would she be perfect for her boss? A beautiful woman like that on Vadka's arm—I blow out a breath and look away.

Am I jealous? Actually jealous?

It's not jealousy, is it?

…Or is it?

Why would I be jealous ? I'm trying to protect him, just like Mariah would do.

We put away the paperwork, and I check in on little Luka, who is contentedly watching a TV show in the spacious, cozy family living room.

"Hey, we're gonna go pick up some cookies for Grandma, okay?"

Luka nods.

He’s visited my mother before, but Mariah and Vadka made sure that it wasn’t often—and when it was, it was always supervised. My mother is too unpredictable. And in recent years, now that she’s declining, the visits are very brief.

"Can I get something to eat too?" he asks, smiling up at me.

"I’ll think about it," I tease, ruffling his hair. "Of course you can get something to eat, sweetheart. I know you love the bakery."

I buckle him into his car seat, and we go for a little ride.

Anya’s bakery isn’t far from here, and when we arrive, her husband, Semyon, is there too .

"Hey, guys," he says with a smile. He's an interesting sort—quiet, aloof, loyal, and protective. "Heard there was a little commotion at work last night," he says.

"Is there anything you guys don't find out about?"

He shakes his head, always literal. "No."

"It's true," Anya says from the back. "You have to keep an eye out for this one. He misses nothing."

He gives me a shrug and goes back to his computer at a little table in the corner of the bakery. Semyon is one of the highest-ranking officials in the Kopolov family—friendly with Vadka, but not best friends like him and Rafail.

Anya comes out to the front, dusting her hands on her apron. "Ruthie! Luka," she says warmly. "What a welcome surprise. It's been a while since I've been able to give you a cookie." She smiles broadly at him. "What can I get you?"

He points to the biggest, chocolate-studded cookie on the top row—a chocolate chip one that Anya makes per her sister-in-law's request. Though she specializes in traditional Russian baked goods, she keeps one tray reserved for American favorites—chocolate chip cookies, cheesecake, and a few other notable treats.

She wraps it in wax paper and slides it into a white paper bag.

"You can have this one," Anya says, "after you eat a good lunch." She's smiling.

"I told my mom I would bring her cookies," I say quietly, not meeting Anya's eyes. I can't stand the pitying look people give me. It makes me feel fragile for some crazy reason .

"How is your mother?" she asks gently while a few other customers come in. Semyon wordlessly takes his place at the counter, filling orders, pouring coffee, and making tea. It’s homey and quiet, and it smells like cinnamon and sugar. I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent before I meet Anya’s eyes.

"Declining," I say in one word—one word that encapsulates an entire lifetime of agony. Declining , just like they said she would.