Page 81 of Single Mom's Daddies
She raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re getting a painting.”
It takes her a second. “Like the Garcías.”
“Exactly like the Garcías.”
Lily doesn’t smile, but the lines around her mouth ease just a little. “Tell me it’s not one of those orange blob things.”
“It might be.”
“Then I’m framing a picture of your face and hanging it next to it.”
“I’d be honored.”
She exhales and nods. “Alright. I’ll make room for my new art.” She pauses, her eyes distant as she watches a class through the glass wall. “Thanks, Nik.”
“Anytime.” I walk back out with Max close behind, his heavy footfalls thudding against the polished floor. The wind’s colder now, slicing across the parking lot, bringing with it the scent of wet leaves and distant exhaust. A streetlamp flickers overhead, buzzing faintly. The lot is empty except for us, shadows stretching long and lean.
“I can’t believe this is what we’ve been reduced to. Art dealers,” Max says. “In my day, we started with a baseball bat. Not an ugly picture.”
“We’re not doing baseball bat diplomacy anymore.”
“That’s the problem. No one fears a painting. A leg of wood? That puts the fear of God in a man.”
I roll my eyes, and we’re halfway to the car when I spot the dark sedan creeping down the street—government plates, polished mirror finish, windows tinted to the legal limit. I don’t even need to see the driver. “Here he comes.”
Max cracks his knuckles, thick fingers flexing with anticipation. “If you change your mind, I keep a bat in the trunk.”
Ruger parks too smoothly, like he wants us to know he’s not in a hurry. The engine cuts out, and a beat later, he steps out slow, trench coat flaring just enough to show the corner of his badge wallet. “Evening, gentlemen.”
I smile without warmth. “Agent Ruger. You lose a ballerina?”
He chuckles. “Just checking out another spot that recently stopped attracting trouble.”
I keep my hands in my pockets. “You’re awfully concerned with the arts.”
“Only when bad artists start performing miracles.”
Max clears his throat like he’s about to say something unwise. “Are you a baseball fan, Agent?”
I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut.
“Not especially,” he says. “I like a game where men face off like men. Head-to-head. Honest.”
Max smirks. “Didn’t know I had something in common with you.”
Ruger grunts his acknowledgment. “You know, I looked at local reports. The corner store—robbed three times in six months. Then they buy a painting. Nothing since.”
“Maybe they’re just luckier now,” I say. “Svet’s work is known to shift energy. Ask any collector. That’s why they sell so well.”
Ruger’s mouth twitches. “And now the ballet studio’s next, right? Getting a painting?”
“Might be.”
“Can’t wait to see what kind of luck it brings them.”
I nod. “Me too.”
