Page 31 of Enforcer Daddy
Midnightfoundmenursinga vodka in the living room's darkness, staring at the destroyed TV as though I could will an episode of The Sopranos into existence. The apartment felt different at this hour—settled into itself, breathing quiet and steady like it had finally accepted its new occupants. Even the city outside had quieted to a distant hum, Manhattan's heartbeat slowed to something almost peaceful.
She emerged from her room like a ghost, Bear padding behind her on sleepy paws. She'd stolen another of my t-shirts—the black one with Cyrillic text she couldn't read that said "Moscow Rules" across the front. It hit her mid-thigh, making her look simultaneously younger and older, vulnerable and dangerous in that particular way she had.
"Can't sleep?" I asked, though it wasn't really a question. I'd heard her moving around for the past hour, the soft sounds of restlessness I'd come to recognize.
She shook her head, settling on the opposite end of the couch with her knees pulled up, the space between us carefully measured. Bear climbed into her lap with a satisfied huff, already falling back asleep.
I poured a second glass without asking, sliding it across the coffee table. The vodka caught what little light there was, clear as water but infinitely more honest.
She took it, sipped, made the face everyone made their first time with real Russian vodka. "Christ. What is this, paint thinner?"
"Beluga Gold. Eight hundred dollars a bottle."
"Expensive paint thinner." But she took another sip, smaller, letting it burn down slow. "Russians and your vodka."
"Italians and their wine. Irish and their whiskey." I raised my glass slightly. "Everyone has their poison."
"What's mine?"
"Self-destruction is my guess," I said without thinking, then watched her flinch like I'd slapped her.
But she laughed, dark and bitter. "Fair."
We sat in oddly comfortable silence, the kind that came from two people who'd seen each other at their worst and decided to coexist anyway. The vodka warmed my chest, loosened thoughts I usually kept locked down tight. She was beautiful in the darkness, those magical eyes catching city light from the windows.
"What's your plan?" she asked suddenly. "With me. You can't keep me here forever."
"Why not?"
She gestured vaguely at the apartment, at herself, at the general insanity of the situation. "Because that's insane. Because you have a life, a job, a family who's going to start asking questions. Because eventually someone will notice I'm missing."
"My brothers might notice," I admitted, the vodka making honesty easier. "They'd want to know about you. About the USB."
"So tell them."
"They'd make a deal with the Morozovs. Trade you for peace, maybe territory, definitely money."
Her face went pale, the glass trembling slightly in her hand. "But you won't?"
"No."
"Why?"
The question I'd been avoiding all week. Why was I protecting her? Why was I risking everything—my position, my family'strust, potentially my life—for a girl who'd bitten me, destroyed my property, and openly plotted escape every single day?
I didn't answer because I didn't know. Or maybe I knew but couldn't say it. That something about her called to something in me, two broken things recognizing each other across all the damage.
"Tell me about the foster homes," I said instead.
She pulled Bear closer, like he was armor against memories. "Why?"
"Because I'm drunk enough to listen and you're drunk enough to tell."
She was quiet for so long I thought she wouldn't answer. Then the words came, slow at first, then faster, like a dam breaking.
"Twelve homes in ten years. The first one, I was eight. They had three biological kids and took in fosters for the money. I got the basement room, which flooded whenever it rained. They'd forget to feed me sometimes, or forget I was down there at all. I learned to stay quiet, invisible, to steal food when no one was looking."
She took another sip, larger this time.
