Page 117 of Single Mom's Daddies
I glance toward the door. “That’s a lot of blood for just the entryway.”
Her lips twitch. “One of them had the nerve to call me an old woman.”
I raise my brows. “And?”
“I shot him in the knees and dragged him inside to finish things. Old woman, my ass.”
I shake my head, half grinning despite myself. “The agents didn’t give you trouble?”
“Please.” She waves a hand. “They came in wide-eyed, tried to take control. I gave them orders instead. They were smart enough to follow them.”
I believe it.
She’s always had a way of commanding a room without raising her voice. Some of that came from surviving men like her husband, Uncle Alexei. The rest came from being scarier than half the Bratva enforcers I’ve ever known.
“I presume the children are alright,” she says quietly.
“Would have been the first words out of my mouth otherwise.”
She nods once. “And the rest?”
“We lost a few good men. Marco, Isaac, Paxton, and Reese.”
She winces at the last one. “I always liked Reese. Cute boy. He liked to flirt. Hire another who flirts with old women.”
I grin. “I’ll do my best.”
Her sigh is heavy. “I’m tired, Roman. Today’s adventure has been much. Time for you to go.”
“Understood. I could use a few days’ of sleep myself after that?—”
“First let the good doctor stitch you up. Don’t get blood on Saffron’s sheets.”
“Will do.” I follow her to the door, and she opens it for me. Something catches my attention.
There—on the cuff of her blouse. Just beneath her elbow. A streak of deep burgundy. Not blood. I know what dried blood looks like. It’s all over me. This is paint. “Were you redecorating when they attacked?”
There’s that sharp, wicked little smirk that always means she’s keeping something from me. “Testing colors.”
I wait.
She doesn’t elaborate.
“You were painting?” I ask finally.
She turns, walking back inside with the poise of royalty. “You handle your business.” She rests a hand lightly on the doorknob. “I’ll handle mine.” Then she closes the door behind her.
I stare at the closed cottage door for a long time, the sound of it still echoing behind my ribs. Whatever she painted…I don’t think I want to know.
I walk back to the main house slowly, letting the wind cool the sweat still clinging to my back. The sky is starting to fade into dusk, streaked with low orange light and the gray haze of spent adrenaline. Everything feels quiet—but not peaceful. Not yet.
The compound looks like itself again. Mostly.
The crews worked fast. Most of the glass is swept up. Bullet holes patched. Blood scrubbed off stone and tile and hardwood. Furniture has been repositioned to hide the worst of it. The halls smell like bleach and other cleaners. Tomorrow, it’ll smell like fresh varnish.
But the ghosts are still here. I feel them in every hallway. Hear them in the scuff of boots and the creak of doors closing too softly.
We lost some of our men. Costello lost more.
