Page 35 of The Bratva King

I push harder.

For a few minutes, I watch him swing and let my brain go quiet. He laughs softly at the top of each arc, that small, private laugh only I have ever heard. That makes the fight worth it. That sweet little laugh when he’s completely carefree.

“Hey.” I slow the swing. “You know the man from my work? The tall one?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He drags his feet through the dirt groove beneath the swing.

“The one with the food,” he says finally.

“Yeah. What did you think of him?”

He considers the question.

“He’s quiet,” Luke says.

I smile. “Yeah, he is.”

“Like me.”

I look at the side of his face. “Yeah,” I say softly. “A little bit like you.”

Another silence. A car passes on the street behind us.

“He made sauce,” Luke says.

“Sauce?”

“Ketchup and mayo.” He says it like he’s sharing a valuable secret. “In a little bowl.”

I almost laugh. Of all the things he could have taken away from that interaction. Nikolai Sokolov, feared casino owner with tattoos and an air of danger, and my son’s primary impression is that the man makes a good dipping sauce.

“Was it good?”

He nods solemnly.

“I want to put my nuggets in it,” he says.

“That’s a great idea.”

It is a great idea. It’s also one I can’t make happen because I don’t have money for mayonnaise. I blink hard, twice, and swallow against the tears building.

I refuse to cry about mayonnaise.

“We’ll try it,” I tell him. “Deal?”

“Deal,” he says.

Thunder rolls in from the west. Not close yet, but close enough. I look up and decide these clouds mean business. I’m looking forward to the rain. It’ll match my mood. More importantly, it’ll cool down the apartment.

“Okay, buddy. Time to go.”

“Five more minutes.”

“Nope. Hear that?”

He tilts his head. Another low roll of thunder, longer this time.

“A thunderstorm,” he says.