Page 32 of The Bratva King

“Don’t,” she says quietly. A warning.

“I’m not running a daycare, Miss Collins.”

Something snaps behind her eyes. She grabs Luke’s backpack from beside the chair and slings it over one shoulder. Then she picks up his blanket and tucks it under her arm.

“You know what?” She turns back to face me. I see her fighting to maintain control. “You’re right. This is not a daycare. This is a casino. You know what else it is? A business that operates twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and recruits people for odd hours, split shifts, and overnight rotations. You know who takes those shifts?” She gestures at herself. “Single mothers. People who need flexible hours because they can’t afford nine-to-five care. People already paying for one babysitter who can’t afford a backup when the first one walks out.”

I say nothing.

“You’re building a brand-new property.” Her voice is shaking, not with fear but with anger. Exhaustion. Frustration. “I’ve heard all about your luxury property and how expensive it is. Every detail curated by you.” She looks me in the eye. “Maybe think about putting in a daycare for your employees who bust their asses to make you rich.”

The room is very quiet.

She reaches down and takes Luke’s hand. He goes with her without resistance, his backpack bouncing against her hip. She heads for the door.

“Luke.” I say his name.

He turns his head, looking back at me from beneath the dark fringe of his hair.

“Bye,” I tell him.

He looks at me for a moment with old, calm, blue eyes.

“Bye,” he says.

One word. Zero inflection. Zero hesitation.

Gabby stops walking.

She looks down at her son. Then back at me. The anger on her face has been replaced by disbelief. She stares at him for another second like she’s waiting for him to sprout a second head.

Then she looks at me one more time and walks out the door.

I return to my desk and sit down. I’ve never thought about childcare. Never thought about what it takes for people to show up every day. Pasha has never said anything. It never occurred to me he might have the same struggles. He’s always there for me because his mother is always there for Mila.

9

Gabby

I hate math. Always have. Being a single mom with real bills has made me hate it even more. I’m always doing math now. What I owe. What I have. The difference feels impossible.

I sit on the edge of the bed while Luke sleeps and make a decision.

Greg told me to call him and take the money. I did call, but only to tell him I had a plan and wasn’t taking his money. He wasn’t happy about it, but I promised I’d call if I couldn’t figure something out.

My car is worth maybe twelve hundred dollars if I’m lucky. But it’s something. The only thing I have left.

I list it on Facebook Marketplace and hope it will sell quickly while also hoping it doesn’t. A car is my escape route. Without it, I’m dependent on public transportation. My last car, the one the program bought for me, had to be left behind. Greg said it was compromised. I never knew what that meant, but I listened when he told me to leave it in a parking lot and never look back.

I’m making breakfast when I get the first bite on the car. I arrange for the buyer to meet me at the gas station around the corner. I won’t bring a stranger to my apartment.

An hour later, I’m watching a man in cargo shorts kick my tires and look under the hood. He starts the engine, revs it, then gets back out. Luke watches him the whole time. The way he keeps his face buried against the back of my thigh tells me he doesn’t like the guy.

Immediately, I think about yesterday. And Nikolai. Luke said goodbye to him.

“Eleven hundred,” the man says.

“Twelve.”