Page 74 of Hush, Little Baby

The words land heavily, but not in the way I’d expect. There’s no threat for me, only for the hypothetical others, and I find myself believing him. After all, he did almost shoot those mean guards. I’m actually pretty sure he would’ve if Constantine hadn’t intervened when he did.

The gun terrified me, and I never want to see somebody get hurt like that right in front of me, but at the same time, it made me realize the power my… my Nikolaus—I’m not ready to use the other word yet—has.

I nod, my jaw wobbly.

“Good boy.” He takes a second, like he wants to savor my submission, and then steers us into the hall.

The world outside the nursery is sunlit and gleaming, all sharp lines and polished floors, the penthouse transforming from fantasy to fortress in a blink. I hear voices in the distance, but no one rounds the corner as Nikolaus carries me down the corridor.

When we reach the stairs, I bury my face in the seam of his shirt and cling to him tighter.

“Time for lunch,” he says, starting our descent.

I end up eating my lunch while on Nikolaus’s lap as he and Constantine discuss work-related matters.

The first few bites are easy. Nikolaus spoons up the broth and holds it to my lips, and I eat without protest because I’m too hungry not to, but find myself actually enjoying the flavor of it.

The conversation between the two of them is low and fast, a current running underneath the sound of my eating. I only catch fragments at first, mostly because I’m worrying almost exclusively about whether Constantine is judging me for sitting on his boss’s knee like a toddler.

But after a while, the names and places start registering—someone named Giuseppe, a warehouse, the “Atlantic corridor,” and “traceable assets.”

Constantine has a pen in one hand and a tablet in the other, tapping the screen every few seconds, sometimes to show Nikolaus a number or a graph.

Nikolaus doesn’t seem to notice the way my legs keep tensing up on his thigh. He wipes a stray droplet of broth from my mouth with the edge of his thumb, then returns to the conversation in the same breath. “If their numbers are accurate, that means we’re shorted by at least thirty percent. They’re either skimming or shifting the drop point.”

“If it’s skimming, Franco’s crew will plug the leak in under a week. If it’s the second, we have to reassess our schedule and start moving the product earlier than planned.” Constantine’s voice is hard to match to his face—so even, so practiced and uninflected. “I’ve already lined up a new contact in Red Bank, but it’ll require a higher cut. If you’re comfortable with that.”

Nikolaus’s arm curls a little tighter around my waist. “Go higher if you need to. I’d rather take the loss than get caught holding a dead drop. I want a buffer for the next two cycles, and a double-check on every transit between here and the Delaware line. Is that doable?”

Constantine turns the tablet toward him, showing a string of numbers in pale blue columns. “I’ll need to use some cash reserves. We’ve already fronted most of the float for April.”

“Do it,” Nikolaus says, pressing his thumb against my lower lip until I open for the next spoonful. “Take whatever you need from the discretionary. If we lose this run, it puts a target on our backs. You know the rest.”

Constantine nods, eyes flicking at me for the barest second before returning to his screen. “Is there anything else I should know about before I call Franco?”

“Not now,” Nikolaus replies, a finality in his tone that makes Constantine set down the tablet. “We’ll circle back tomorrow. Today I need to focus on Charlie.”

“Understood,” Constantine says, and leaves without another word.

Later, after dinner, when Nikolaus brings me back up to my room, I’m not feeling as little as I had been earlier in the day, so as Nikolaus is sitting in the big rocking chair, watching me paint a farm with watercolors, I decide to be brave.

I look up from the muddy green field I’m trying to paint—the cows are weirdly lopsided, and the barn’s roof keeps bleeding into the sky—and find him smiling at me like I’m the only thing worth watching in the room. It makes my face get hot, so I look back down at the page.

“Can I um… ask you something?”

Nikolaus’s head tilts. “Anything, sweetheart.”

I rinse my brush in the water jar, watching the color swirl out. “What language were you speaking? With the men at the hotel.” I remember the sharp edges of it, the way the syllables snapped together—nothing like the round, relaxed English he used with me.

“Greek,” he says, with a hint of surprise that I noticed.

“Oh.” I let the brush fall to the table and pick at a frayed bit of paper towel. “Are you Greek?”

He laughs warmly. “I am. My parents moved here when I was very young. My mother didn’t want me to lose the language, so we spoke it a lot at home.” There’s a softening in his face as he says it.

“You must be really good at languages. I mean, you speak English like you were born here.”

He shrugs, but there’s something pleased in his eyes. “I liked school. I liked learning to sound like everyone else.” He watches me smudge the sky into the barn roof. “But I never lost the accent, not completely. I can hear it, anyway.”