Chapter 4
LUKA
Iwatch from my office window as a sound I'd forgotten existed drifts across the yard—genuine, unguarded laughter. Not mine. Leo's.
My pen stills against the contract I'm reviewing. When did I last hear him laugh like that? Not the polite giggles he offers his tutor or the nervous chuckles when I catch him sneaking cookies. This is different. This is joy.
He's chasing Cindy around the massive oak tree, Mac barking and weaving between their legs. She lets him catch her, spinning him in a circle that has him shrieking with delight. The sound hits me like a physical blow.
Three years. It's been three years since I pulled him out of that basement in Chechnya, and this is the first time he's sounded like what he is, a little boy. Not a survivor. Not a victim. Just a child playing in the sunshine.
Leo wasn't supposed to be mine.
His father had been my best and only friend. The guy I would give my life for.
Instead, he died for me. His only request was that I look after his son.
The boy’s mother, Anya, was a whore. Literally.
No judgment on her or the way she made money.
But Nikolai never loved her. That’s not what they had together.
When she got pregnant and insisted the child was his.
He accepted it. He never questioned paternity.
Nik loved that boy more than anything in the world.
I checked up on Leo as much as I could. Then I got pulled away to handle an assignment and was gone for three months. Anya took advantage of my absence and proved how much she did not want her own child.
Three months in Prague. Three months trusting a woman whose maternal instincts were as fictional as her love for Nikolai had been.
The kindergarten teacher wouldn't look at me when I asked about Leo. The neighbors wouldn’t say what they’ve heard. I found him in Anya's basement, curled in a corner like a wounded animal, speaking only in whispers and flinching from shadows.
Thirty-six pounds. That's what my son weighed at six years old.
Anya's death was a mercy for him, not her. Some sins don't deserve absolution.
Didn’t even have to debate it. Then, I took Leo. Back then, he was Leonid. For months after I brought him home, he barely spoke. Nightmares every night. He'd flinch if I moved too quickly.
Now he's shrieking with laughter as Cindy pretends Mac has knocked her over. She’s rolling dramatically on the grass while the dog licks her face. Leo thinks this is the funniest thing he's ever seen.
She's been here a week. Five days since I fucked her on the hood of my car like some kind of animal. Five days since I discovered she was a virgin and felt something crack inside my chest that I thought was permanently sealed shut.
I should regret it. Taking her innocence like that, rough and desperate, in my garage. But watching her now, seeing how naturally she fits into this space I've built for Leo, I can't bring myself to feel anything but possessive satisfaction.
When I first brought Leo to meet her three days ago, I expected questions. Most people want to know the story. hose kid is he? Where did he come from? Why does a man like me have a six-year-old shadow? Cindy had taken one look at him hiding behind my legs and simply sat down on the floor.
"Hey there," she'd whispered. "I'm Cindy. Want to meet my dog?"
Just like that. No interrogation, no judgment. She let Leo approach Mac at his own pace, never pushing, never overwhelming him. Within an hour, they were best friends.
I felt something twist in my chest watching them together. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
She moves through my world like she was born to it, and that should terrify me. But watching her teach Leo how to braid friendship bracelets, her grease-stained fingers gentle against his small ones. I find myself cataloging details I have no business noticing.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. How her whole face transforms when she smiles at something he says. The unconscious grace in her movements, earned through years of honest work.
She's nothing like the manufactured perfection that usually decorates charity galas on my arm.
No surgeon's enhancements or designer desperation.
Cindy is real in a way I'd forgotten existed.
Sharp edges and earned strength wrapped around a heart that's somehow survived intact despite everything life's thrown at her.
Beautiful isn't the right word. She's magnetic. Essential. Like discovering I've been holding my breath for years and she's the first clean air I've tasted.
Cindy is all sharp angles and earned muscle. Five-six with a wiry-lean build that speaks of years doing real work.
Her olive skin is dotted with faint freckles from long hours in the sun. There's a small scar on her left forearm. I noticed it when she was splayed out on my car.
Her hair is the color of milk chocolate mixed with natural honey streaks, thick, and usually pulled back in a ponytail. When it's loose, like it was that night in the garage, it falls past her shoulders in waves.
But it's her eyes that get to me. Deep-set blue that shifts between sky and storm depending on the light. They're old eyes in a young face, always flickering with suspicion and a sadness that runs bone-deep.
She's learned not to trust, not to hope. Someone must’ve taught her early that the world would disappoint her.
I recognize that look because I see it in my own mirror.
We all share it.
Her. Me. Leo. Three fractured souls all under the same roof.
I monitor them through the security cameras throughout the day. I tell myself it's for their protection. But really, I just like watching her with him.
She listens when he talks about his drawings. How she lets him help her brush Mac. The gentle way she corrects his English without making him feel stupid.
She doesn't know what happened to him. Doesn't know about the scars on his back or the way he still wakes up screaming sometimes. But she treats him like he's precious anyway, like his happiness matters more than her own comfort.
Too soft. That's what she is, under all that fire and attitude. Too soft for a man like me.
I watch her catch Leo in a hug, spinning him around while Mac jumps at their feet. The kid is giggling so hard he can barely breathe.
This is what I wanted for him. What I've been trying to give him since the day I found him. Safety. Joy. The chance to be a normal kid.
But I never expected her to be the one to give it to him.
I never expected to want to keep her this badly.
The nanny appears. Her crisp uniform was a stark contrast to the chaos of grass stains and dog hair on Leo's clothes.
He groans when he sees her, his shoulders sagging in defeat.
"Time for studies, Leo," she says in accented English.
"Five more minutes?" he pleads, looking between her and Cindy with those big eyes that usually get him whatever he wants.
"Now," the nanny says firmly but not unkindly.
Cindy ruffles his hair. "Go on, kiddo. Mac and I will be here when you're done."
I watch Leo trudge toward the house, dragging his feet like he's walking to his execution. The kid's brilliant—too smart for his own good sometimes—but sitting still for lessons is torture for him. I'm homeschooling him for now. He's not ready for the social dynamics of regular school yet.
Maybe next year.
Maybe after more time with Cindy.
"Cindy," I call from the doorway. "My study. Now."
My voice cuts across the lawn, and she freezes mid-laugh. Grass stains darken her knees, and her hair has escaped its ponytail, creating a honey-brown halo around her face. For a heartbeat, she looks like any other woman enjoying a lazy afternoon with a child who adores her.
Then our eyes meet, and the mask slips back into place.
“Leo, baby, I need to talk to your dad for a minute.” Her voice stays light, but I catch the slight tremor. She's learning to read my moods, learning when the monster needs feeding.
Smart girl.
“Will you come back?” Leo's question is small—vulnerable. It guts me.
“Of course,” she promises, and the conviction in her voice makes something crack in my chest. “I'll always come back to you.”
She means it. That's what makes her dangerous.
But she gets to her feet and follows me inside without argument.
My study is all dark wood and leather, designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls. Most people who sit across from my desk leave sweating. Some just leave dead.
Depends on the day. And my mood. And their crime.
Cindy drops into the chair, one leg thrown over the armrest. Her fleabag dog sits on the floor beside her.
Technically, I know it doesn’t have fleas. Before I ever brought that beast into my home, it went to a vet. And then a groomer.
"You like kids?" I ask, settling behind my desk.
She glares at me. "I like Leo. Not sure about you yet."
I can't even be insulted. The honesty is refreshing after years of people telling me what they think I want to hear. She likes my boy. That's all that matters.
Before I can respond, Viktor appears in the doorway. His massive frame fills the entrance as he clears his throat.
"Edgar needs to speak with you," he says in Russian. "Says it's urgent."
I nod, already mentally shifting gears. Edgar handles my legitimate business interests—the ones that look good on paper. If he's calling, something has gone wrong with one of the import deals.
"I'm going for a swim," Cindy announces, standing up and stretching. The movement pulls her tank top tight across her chest. Her breasts are naturally large for her thin body.
My cock twitches at the thought of her in a swimsuit. All that olive skin glistening with water and dripping down that ample cleavage.
Viktor notices my reaction—the bastard's too observant for his own good. He makes a low sound that might be amusement.
"Shut the fuck up," I mutter in Russian.
When she leaves, swaying those hips like she knows exactly what she's doing to me, I close my eyes and lean back in my chair.
"I should’ve taken a finger, not her.”
I say it in Russian. She glances over her shoulder and glares at me before disappearing down the hall.
Viktor just laughs.
Fucker.
He has no idea.
I don't regret choosing her. That's the problem. Something about her draws me in like a moth to a flame. I know I'm going to get burned. But I can't seem to stop myself from wanting more.
I brush the thought away and head upstairs to tuck Leo into bed.
It's become our ritual. My attempt to give him normalcy.
We always have at least one bedtime story.
Sometimes, a song in Russian that my own mother used to sing to me before she died.
Simple moments that help chase away his nightmares.
Leo is already in his pajamas when I reach his room.
"Papa," he says, using the name that still catches me off guard sometimes. "Can Cindy come say goodnight, too?"
I hesitate. This is our time. The quiet moments where I can pretend I'm not completely fucking up this whole parenting thing.
But the hope in his eyes makes it impossible to say no.
"If she wants to," I tell him.
He's already running down the hall before I finish the sentence.
I follow at a slower pace, finding them both in her room.
She's sitting cross-legged on her bed in those silk pajamas that have been driving me insane each time I glimpse her in them.
Mac is sprawled across her bed, his head resting on a pillow.
"Story time!" Leo announces, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the door.
"Leo, I'm sure your dad can handle—"
“Please?" The kid deploys those big eyes like weapons. "You use better voices for the characters."
She glances at me. I give a slight nod.
“Alright, then,” she smiles and gently touches his head.
I think she’s seen his back by now. Viktor told me they went swimming together. She seems to know not to touch his back.
Leo holds her hand while I walk behind them back to his room.
Leo's room smells like crayons, clean sheets, and the faint vanilla of the nightlight that keeps the darkness at bay. His drawings cover every surface; stick figure families with too many smiles, houses with crooked chimneys, and dogs that look suspiciously like Mac.
“Which story tonight?” Cindy asks, settling into the chair I bought for these moments. It's never felt right when I use it—too formal, too much like the distance I've spent three years trying to bridge. But she fills it perfectly, tucking one leg beneath her like she's always belonged here.
“The dragon one,” Leo says, already drowsy. “But make him Russian this time. Like Papa.”
The words hit like shrapnel. In Leo's world, Russian means safety. It means the man who pulled him from hell and promised him heaven. It means me.
Cindy's eyes find mine over his head, and I see understanding there. Recognition of how fragile this moment is, how easily it could shatter.
"Which story tonight?" she asks, smoothing his hair back from his forehead with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
"The one about the dragon," Leo says sleepily.
Cindy's voice weaves through the darkness, telling stories of brave princesses and misunderstood dragons who just want to protect their treasures. Leo's breathing deepens, his small body relaxing into the kind of trust I thought was lost forever.
She leans down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, and my chest constricts.
“Sweet dreams, little love,” she whispers.
“Night, Mama.”
The word slips out on a sigh, and the world tilts sideways. Cindy goes statue-still, her hand frozen against his hair. I watch color drain from her face—see panic flood her system like poison.
She starts to pull away, but Leo's fingers tangle in her shirt, holding her close even in sleep. His face is peaceful in a way I haven't seen since before Anya destroyed him.
“Mama,” he whispers again, and something breaks open in my chest.
She slowly withdraws her hand and steps away.
I step to the side and allow her to pass me. I stand there until I hear her door close.
I look back at Leo, who has drifted off to sleep.
Holy shit. What did I do?