Page 92 of The Bratva King

I set the vase on a table in the break room and pull out my phone.

I should text Nikolai and thank him, but that’s not very personal. I’ll tell him when I see him tonight.

I stare at the flowers. They’re just flowers. Beautiful, expensive flowers from a man who can afford to send them.

Nikolai is safe, I remind myself. He’s been nothing but good to us.

He’s not Matteo.

I think about telling him. I want to tell him who I really am. The widow of a made man. A woman who traded information to the FBI and then disappeared when her husband’s car exploded.

He deserves to know what he’s getting into. What kind of danger he might be bringing into his house by letting us stay.

But I can’t.

If I tell him, he might make us leave. He might decide Luke and I are too much of a risk. And I can’t lose this. Not when Luke is finally blossoming. Not when I’m finally feeling like I can breathe.

Greg would lose his mind if he knew I was living with a bratva boss. He’d tell me I’m making the same mistake all over again. Trading one dangerous man for another.

But Nikolai isn’t like Matteo.

Matteo was cruel. Violent. He married me because it was ordered. I came from the right family and would give him legitimate heirs. He was twenty-five years older than me and had already been widowed twice before.

Nikolai chose us. He didn’t have to. He could have left me and Luke standing on that sidewalk. He could have given me a hotel room for a night and washed his hands of us.

Instead, he brought us into his home. Into his life.

He’s nothing like my late husband.

Then, it occurs to me to check for a card. There isn’t one. Nikolai gifted me a hundred-thousand-dollar car without fanfare. He probably told someone to send flowers and didn’t think about the details. He’s a man of few words. Writing a sweet message is not his thing. I know it and accept it.

I’m being paranoid. I’ve spent too long looking over my shoulder. It’s made me see threats where there aren’t any.

I’m halfway across the parking garage when I hear the footsteps behind me. They’re moving fast.

I turn just as someone grabs my arm. The vase slips from my grip. Crystal shatters across the concrete, and roses scatter everywhere. Water spreads across the oil-stained pavement.

I don’t think. I react. Five years of looking over my shoulder kicks in. I drive my elbow back into his ribs. He grunts. His grip loosens just enough for me to twist away.

The man has a ski mask on. In July. In Vegas.

He lunges for me again, and I swing my purse at his head. The strap breaks, but the bag connects with his temple. He staggers and reaches out for it, snatching it from my hand.

“Hey!” someone shouts from across the garage. “Security!”

The man looks toward the voice, then back at me. His eyes are cold. Dead.

“This isn’t over,” he says.

Then he takes off toward the exit stairwell.

My hands are shaking. Hard. A security guard appears beside me with his hand on his radio.

“You okay? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “I’m okay.”

“I’ll call the police,” he says.