Chapter 4 – Poppy
“Just let go!” Brady panted. “I got this.”
No, you don’t. “Alright, ready, steady….”
I released my grip on the seat. Then the handlebar. One small leg pushed. His body wiggled.
The bike tipped and crashed.
“Uff!” Brady pushed himself up and wiped asphalt grit from his hands. The pinched look on his face said that one hurt.
I bit my tongue.
“You let go too late,” he accused. “I have it, Mama.”
My son was the sweetest kid in the world.
Affectionate to a fault. But along with the wild streak, there was a sharpness that came out when he was in pain, ill, or crabby.
He was the very definition of hangry. Any deviation in sleep schedule could bring out a cranky spell.
Or, like now, physical hurt and frustration made his bark come out.
“I let go exactly when you said,” I reminded him gently.
Brady scrunched up his nose. “Again.”
Taking a deep breath, I counted to five. “‘Again, please.’”
“Again.” And then he flashed me that determined grin. Cheeky and cocky. “Please, Mama.”
I melted. “Okay.”
As I jogged beside him, the tires churned over the drive.
I flicked a glance at the sports car rounding the curve on the other side of the central fountain.
It pulled to the side, out of our way. But given the spastic biker’s lack of coordination, I planned to give the shiny black vehicle a wide berth when we went that way.
My attention was snagged by Brady’s whoop. “I’m ready!”
I released him.
He made it three feet before balance turned in the favor of gravity.
I winced as he vaulted off the falling bike. This time, he didn’t land on the pavement.
“I had it! Did you see, Mama?” he beamed.
“I did,” I cheered.
Footsteps approached. I felt a prickle along my neck. Turning, I came face to face with a pair of flashing black eyes.
“Good morning.” Ivan cant his head.
“Morning.” A mixture of feelings sprouted inside me.
The unease at being alone with a mob boss swam in my stomach.
I disliked him on principle for being part of the underworld.
But if it wasn’t for that, the other feelings, the ones that dared me to admire the tattoos on his forearms, the muscles of his biceps, the easy smirk on his lips, might have taken precedence.
But I was not going to stand here admiring a kingpin. One who was older than me. A man who’d spent the past decades paying the ruthless price to gain the top seat in his organization.
“That’s some bike,” Ivan observed, addressing Brady.
“Sure is!” Brady picked it up and swung his leg over. He struggled to balance on his toe and scoot his tiny butt on the seat. “Cousin Sandro said I needed to practice while we were here. He’ll ship it back home when we leave.”
Ivan’s gaze flicked to me. “Cousin Sandro?”
“Yup!” Brady chirped. “That’s his house.”
One small thumb jerked at the house. The bike wobbled, and Brady quickly caught the handlebar.
Well, crap.
Now the family tie was out. While it was possible Ivan might mistake the term as one of familiarity, it was far more likely he took the title at face value.
“I’m ready, Mama,” Brady sang out.
Moving to his side meant I had to put my back to the don’s guest. Each step made me painfully aware of how tight—and short—my firetruck-red denim shorts were. But if I tugged the hem, it would only bring attention to them.
Brady pedaled fast, and I had to run.
“Let go,” he squealed.
Reluctantly, I did.
He crashed immediately.
“Madre!” he sassed, still crumpled on the pavement. “You didn’t let go.”
“I did,” I protested, bending to help him pick up the bike.
He scrambled up, picking small bits of pavement off his hands and then his knees. “You didn’t.”
“Your mom’s doing a good job,” Ivan said, suddenly close.
I jumped.
Crap.
I was off around this man. A man I barely knew but was instinctually familiar with at the same time.
Ivan reached for the bike. He wasn’t wearing the gold rings today, but his hands were still decorated with the inky lines of art. Long, thick fingers wrapped around the bike’s handles.
“How about I give her a break?” the kingpin offered.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I protested. “Alessandro is probably waiting for you.”
Ivan pulled the bike from my grip. Something earthy and fresh—minty maybe—tickled my nose. I hurried back a few steps.
“I’m early,” Ivan said in a low tone. “And I don’t mind keeping Mancini waiting.”
The rumble of that voice mixed with the accent made me shiver. Few men were that bold. Or maybe he was just stupid. But…no. One look at his face showed there was none of the latter.
I wet my lips. Dark eyes dropped to track the motion.
The next breath was hard to find.
Brady hopped on the bike and reality snapped back into place. My son was in the clutches of a mobster.
I bolted forward, but they were already moving. The ball of my foot dug into the pavement, and I launched after them.
But…Ivan had him.
Brady whooped, signaling him to let go.
Ivan did. Kind of.
He kept pace. The moment the telltale wobble threatened to claim the boy, Ivan’s hands shot out to catch the bike.
They raced ahead another five paces. Ivan let go.
Waited. And then readjusted his grip. I slowed.
The mobster wasn’t going to let Brady fall.
They kept at it. Pedaling, balancing—a careful song and dance.
The bike made it halfway around the circular drive.
Ivan steadied Brady, helping him to turn.
I stopped. The initial flare of panic subsided quickly.
Brady made it ten whole pedals without help. Ivan guided him to turn again.
This was…surprising.
While I had lots of boy cousins to help as role models for my kid, I rarely let outsiders influence him. I was the definition of an introvert, content to live with my books, my blog, and my tiny cottage in the small town that had welcomed me.
It didn’t make sense that I trusted a complete stranger around the little boy who meant more to me than life itself. But watching them come around the fountain, racing directly toward me, that was exactly what I felt—trust.
And a few other things.
While I still couldn’t place Ivan’s age, he was older. Those muscles shifting under his shirt gave him away. A man’s body. It was hard not to admire the shift and flex. He wasn’t the type that usually caught my eye, and yet here I was. Staring.
I do not have a thing for an older guy.
“Brake,” Ivan instructed. His nose scrunched as he concentrated.
Brady pulled the grip near the handle.
“I did it, Mama! Did you see? I did it,” he said in a breathless rush.
I smiled. “I saw, buddy.”
“Again,” Brady demanded.
Ivan lifted a dark brow.
Brady corrected himself quickly. “Again, please, sir.”
“You can call me Ivan,” the mobster offered.
Shaking myself, I jumped in to end the situation before Brady roped him into spending the next hour looping around and around the fountain.
“It’s lunchtime, bud,” I announced. “You’re going to have to eat fast, because Penny will be ready for us soon.”
“Oh, yeah!” Brady leapt to the ground. “Let’s go eat.”
“Take your bike to the garage,” I instructed as the ball of energy was about to dash inside.
“I’ll help,” Ivan offered.
Brady course corrected and sprinted past Ivan.
Before I could chide him for not wheeling the bike, Ivan lifted it easily and strode after the boy.
I am not ogling. I am not. I am not—
But the way the mobster’s arms flexed as he carried the bike, as if it weighed nothing at all, was not something to look away from.
My stomach did a flip. Those shoulders were broad, able to carry the weight of the world.
There was a certain appeal to his strength, and it was downright mouthwatering.
“Get a grip,” I scolded myself.
I managed to wrangle my wayward impulses when they returned.
“Ivan wants to come to the movies,” Brady announced, skidding to a halt in front of me.
Coherent thoughts dashed from my brain. I blinked down at my son, then like a string, my gaze was tugged up to meet the dark, focused one towering above me.
“Can he, Mama, please?” Brady clasped his hands.
Mobsters did business. They socialized when there was a goal. Made Men of different circles did not hang out at the cinema.
I was at a complete and utter loss for words. There was no protocol for how to act in this situation.
“It’s a cartoon,” I blurted out.
Ivan gave me a lazy grin. “I love cartoons.”
“It’s a Monday afternoon.” My excuses were lamer and lamer. “Don’t you have work?”
“I’m more of a night owl,” Ivan countered.
I bit my lip to keep from hissing if it was safe, but I caved. “If Alessandro says it’s okay, then I guess I don’t see why not. This was their outing they suggested.”
Brady fisted the air with a shout of triumph, let out another whoop, and took off racing for the house, shouting for Cousin Sandro.
Ivan lingered for a moment. He was an arm’s length away. There was an awareness between us that was almost tangible.
“He’s a cute kid,” Ivan said softly. “His father must be proud.”
I winced. This part was still awkward. “It was a closed adoption. We don’t know who his dad was. But I’m sure he would be, who wouldn’t?”
Something flashed in those bottomless pools of ink. “He’s never met him?”
“No.” There wasn’t judgment at me being a single mom. I’d been expecting it. It was always there. But whatever the look was that Ivan gave me, it wasn’t that. And I didn’t know how to respond.
“I’ll go meet with Mancini, but Poppy?”
I shifted awkwardly. “Yeah?”
“I’d very much like to go to the movies with you.” He didn’t wait for my response but moved toward the front door.
That you sounded singular. English was such a mixed-up language. In Italian, I would have known if he meant the plural, if he meant he wanted to come with our group. But instead, I was left to wonder as I trailed after him.
The cartoon characters were singing. Again.
I was bored out of my mind. Screen time at our house was limited, not because I thought it was bad or brain rotting, but because we spent our downtime reading.
To Brady, the big cinema, with a concession stand that was basically a restaurant, was a novel experience.
He was in his element.
Meanwhile, I lasted a whole twenty minutes before pulling my Kindle from my purse.
The screen light was set low to avoid causing a disturbance.
As it always did, the book pulled me into the pages.
Made up cities painted vivid pictures in my mind.
Not only could I see the characters, but I felt their struggles.
It was almost enough to distract me from the long pair of legs to my left.
But then their owner shifted in his seat.
A hand, decorated with ink, scooped the popcorn tucked at the edge of my seat. Suddenly, my gaze was focused on his hand. This close, puckered skin and white lines crisscrossing the back of those knuckles were visible.
My gaze darted back to my Kindle.
To my right, Penelope leaned over to giggle with Brady, who sat between her and Alessandro. If either of them was upset that there was an extra guest sitting up here with us, they didn’t say.
I rolled to my side, tucking my legs under me. The bag of popcorn lurched and tipped slightly. I reached to catch it at the same time Ivan did. The edge of his hand brushed against mine.
Electricity crackled from the contact.
Snatching my hand back, I splayed my fingers over my thigh.
Ivan bent his head. “Do I make you nervous?”
The crisp scent of mint was a welcome relief from the stale aromas of the theater. I breathed him in, enjoying the small rush of his attention.
“No,” I said honestly. “I just don’t like the taste of the fake butter they put on that.”
I gestured to the bag.
Ivan plucked a few kernels from the bag and rolled them on his palm with his thumb. “It’s fake?”
I nodded. “I make it at home with the real stuff. It’s much better.”
“Then why did you get it?” he whispered.
My shoulder lifted slightly. “It’s part of the cinematic experience.”
Ivan moved back to his side. The arm rest between us was a poor barrier. It could lift, and then we’d be sitting together. As it was, there wasn’t much protection from his presence.
I forced myself to resume reading. Several pages roped me back into the story about a witch and the king of the vampires she was working with under duress. They couldn’t stop stealing glances across the throne room.
Just like I couldn’t stop sneaking a peek at the mobster next to me.
Eyes trained on the screen, Ivan smirked. “See something you like?”
My cheeks burned. I huddled into the cushioned seat, trying to make myself small.
But Ivan wasn’t done.
He crossed the divide, yellow box with thick brown letters held out. “Want some?”
This felt…oddly like a date.
Not that I had much experience in those matters.
“Sure,” I gulped.
I held out my palm. Ivan tapped the box, and little nuggets of something sweet rolled onto my hand. There were almost more than I could hold.
He retreated again. I took a deep breath and continued to read, popping candy absently into my mouth. Piece by piece, not even tasting the sugar.
The climactic moment of the ball, where the vampire king chose the outcast witch to dance with him in front of the court, sucked me back into the book.
Her dress was copper, highlighting her soft brown skin.
She was trying her best to give off a dark energy, but it couldn’t match that of the bloodsucker.
Wicked words brushed against the shell of her ear, hot and tempting.
“You dropped one.” Ivan’s fingers were in my lap, pinching a piece of chocolate.
The mental image of the fantasy ball snapped from my mind. It was impossible to deny the excitement in my chest. It’d been years since I was in this position, and I was never good at flirting.
Ivan brought the candy to my mouth. I let him slip it inside. His finger brushed over my bottom lip. The touch could have been construed as accidental, but we both knew it wasn’t.
When he pulled back, I resisted the urge to squirm. This man was intense. There was no doubt in my mind he was here to play with me.
“Read your book,” he murmured.
I turned my head, and my stupid heart skipped at the devastating smile on his lips.
I wasn’t sure what I’d done to catch the eye of this creature of the underworld. But for the briefest of moments, trapped in the dark theater, I couldn’t bring myself to mind. Later, I knew I would lecture myself about the insanity of letting my emotions be caught like this.