Page 116 of Single Mom's Daddies
Ours. Mine. Part of this family. Exactly where she’s meant to be.
By the time we call the cleanup crews, the worst is over. Costello’s men are either dead, cuffed, or bleeding into our floorboards. Ruger’s people took full custody of all of them including a shackled, bruised, and spitting blood Joe Costello. He’s alive. For now.
Ruger said it would be federal custody, and I believe him. I don’t know what charges they’ll try to make stick—RICO, conspiracy,several counts of attempted murder, assault, terrorism. They can throw the book at him after this. But I’m not sure how much it will matter in the long run. He probably won’t make it to the inside of a courtroom.
Joe’s a liability now. He brought federal heat down on the mafia. They’ll keep their distance for a few days, maybe a week. Then they’ll start whispering. Planning. Wondering whether it’s cleaner to let the system handle him—or do it themselves.
My money’s on the latter. The mob doesn’t keep problems alive.
By late afternoon, most of the compound has been scrubbed. Blood cleaned. Debris hauled out. The furniture will take longer—wood takes on damage you don’t see right away. It shows up in a week or two of regular wear and tear. Cracks become fissures overnight.
But the house held. The security team held.Weheld. Even Saffron held her own.
Fuck, I’m so damn proud of her.
Still, we double the guard. No one argues. Even Ruger didn’t blink when I told him there’d be men on the roof now with kill orders after midnight.
He just nodded. “Makes sense.”
I head toward the rear cottage after checking the last security rotation. Olenna’s. The worst hit.
When I reach it, the front steps are stained with dried blood. The front window’s been re-boarded. One of the agents is just leaving, notepad in hand, a tight expression on his face. He doesn’t make eye contact.
Inside, I find her in her living room, perched on her armchair like nothing happened. The queen of her domain. There are four overturned chairs, bloody stains on her formerly white living room rug, and two spent casings sitting on a saucer next to her vodka glass. Yet, she looks regal.
“I see you survived,” I say dryly.
“Doubting me never pays off,” Olenna replies, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin as if she just finished brunch, not a war.
“The feds cleared the space?”
“They took what they needed.” She lifts a hand toward the now-empty display case that once held her…collection.
“They took your trophies?”
She smiles patiently. “I am many things, Roman, but I am not a moron.”
She stands and walks to the far wall, taps a hidden panel near a decorative molding, and a soft click answers. The shelves recede—just a breath—and I hear the faint shhhk of something sliding into place. The shelves shift and some lift, revealing her trophies that never went anywhere.
I stare, then laugh. “You’re a lunatic.”
“You have your hobbies. I have mine.”
Olenna moves like a woman twenty years younger, straight-backed and sharp-eyed, as she crosses the room to retrieve her vodka. The glass clinks faintly in her hand. Bloodstains are still drying on the edge of the rug, but she doesn’t even glance at them.
“Do you know how many people have died in this cottage?” she asks, sipping delicately.
“I’d rather not,” I mutter.
“More than you think,” she says, almost fond. “Less than they deserved.”
I lean on the doorframe. “You didn’t have to hold the line here. You could’ve gone to the panic room.”
She snorts. “And let some boy with a shiny new rifle track his mud into my hall? I’d rather be embalmed alive.”
“You almost were.”
Olenna huffs a laugh. “They didn’t make it past the entryway.”
