Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“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.”