Nikolaus #2
I don’t bother to explain myself. There are no words for the way my hands shake when I think about leaving Charlie alone upstairs, even for a few extra minutes.
I balance the breakfast on the tray and carry it upstairs, careful not to spill on the way. At the nursery door, I pause, taking a moment to reassure myself that I can and will prove to Charlie that last night was nothing; that this Daddy won’t back down just because of a little puke.
I push the door open with my hip.
* * *
By the time I step into my office the next morning, we’ve already squeezed in a doctor’s visit, kicked off genetic testing, and increased Charlie’s muscle-relaxer dosage.
I’ll need a second cup of coffee soon.
God.
There are only two days left.
Charlie turns twenty-six in two days.
My desk is fucking insane right now. Contract drafts stamped with neon “URGENT” stickers are all over the place, coffee rings stain reports, and my inbox has been flooded with emails that multiplied overnight like some digital plague.
And yet, my gaze keeps flicking away from the chaos toward my laptop screen, where a row of browser tabs glows invitingly.
I sink into my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose, as if attempting to squeeze clarity into my skull.
This is absurd. I’ve brokered weapons deals in active war zones under gunfire’s staccato beat.
I’ve faced down cartel bosses with smiles as lethal as their riches.
I’ve negotiated at marble-floored tables with men whose favorite pastime is inventing new ways to break people.
But nothing has left me feeling as unmoored as preparing for Charlie’s birthday.
The actual shopping wasn’t hard. Three rush shipments are en route to New York as we speak—one packed to the brim with new little clothes and accessories, another filled with enough plastic blocks and puzzles to stock a small daycare.
One special box even holds a custom pacifier and clip set hand-painted with tiny yellow ducks.
But that’s the easy part. The real problem is the day itself.
I drum my fingers on the desk’s polished surface and glance at the sticky note plastered to my monitor’s corner.
Its neon-yellow edge peeks out from beneath a pile of contracts, holding a growing list of options—the zoo, renting out a children’s museum for the day, having a picnic in Central Park, a private movie screening, a visit to Build-a-Bear.
I stare at that last suggestion, then pencil in a question mark beside it. Would he actually enjoy it? Part of me suspects he’d adore it, but the other fears he’d spend the whole time feeling awkward and out of place.
A knock reverberates through the room, and before I can reply, the door swings open and Constantine strides in, his dark suit impeccably tailored, his gaze already appraising me.
“You’ve been impossible to reach today,” he says, exasperation threading his voice.
My phone lies face down on the desk. When I check it, I find four missed calls and three unread texts. “Shit. I’m sorry. I literally just got out of Charlie’s doctor visit.”
He exhales in frustration, the sound making me look up. He’s beside me now, looking at my computer.
I lift an eyebrow. “What?”
He rolls his eyes, then looks pointedly at my monitor, to the Build-a-Bear website I had up to check if I could arrange a private experience. I click it closed with deliberate calm.
Constantine’s lips press into a thin line. “You’re looking at a kiddie stuffed animal store during business hours.”
“It’s my business,” I reply evenly.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is absolutely the point.”
He drops into the chair opposite me with the weary resignation of a man who knows me far too well. Normally, I’d savor this—watching him squirm. But today his posture is too tight, his jaw set beneath eyes that foretell bad news. My amusement melts.
“What happened?” I ask, my amusement quickly melting.
Constantine inhales. “The Russians reached out.”
My chest tightens. “Which Russians?”
He meets my gaze. “The Bogdanov organization.”
The name hovers in the air between us, and I frown, trying to place it. I can’t.
“What do they want?” I ask.
“A meeting.”
I bark out a laugh. “Why?”
“Artem Bogdanov wants to discuss a potential agreement.”
The word “agreement” tastes absurd on my tongue. My laughter crescendos. “An agreement?” I echo.
Constantine remains unshaken. “Yes.”
“Who the hell even is Artem Bogdanov?” I challenge, exasperation tickling my spine.
His eyes narrow. “He’s built a sizable operation over the last few years.”
“And now he thinks he’s ready to play with the big leagues,” I say dismissively. Every year, some cocky upstart tries to claim the throne of organized crime—most flame out in months, and a few become cautionary legends.
“And he wants an agreement,” Constantine repeats. “Considering what’s been happening lately…”
I lean back, recalling each recent snag in our operation. None were catastrophic, just pebbles thrown at my windows. “You think they’re connected,” I finish for him.
“I think we should hear him out,” Constantine replies.
I study him closely. He rarely pushes without cause—strategic where I’m decisive. If he’s advocating a meeting, there must be merit. Still, my pride bristles.
“I don’t negotiate with people I barely know.”
“You don’t have to negotiate,” he counters.
“Then what’s the point?”
“Information,” he says simply. “Maybe they’re a threat. Maybe they’re an asset. Maybe both.”
Regretful though I am to admit it, he makes sense. I tap my fingers against the desktop. Part of me wants to refuse on principle; another part recognizes that trusting Constantine’s instincts has saved me from countless quagmires.
Finally, I exhale. “I’ll think about it.”
His shoulders loosen just a fraction. “I think that’s wise,” he says, a small victory glinting in his tone.
I narrow my eyes, scoffing, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “Don’t sound so pleased with yourself yet.”
“I’ll try my best,” he replies, grinning back at me.
We shift into scheduling logistics—time, place, contingencies—but it isn’t long before my mind drifts upstairs, to Charlie. Here I am, negotiating shadow wars and shipping routes, while all I really want is to give him a birthday that he’ll love.
I will make Charlie feel celebrated—truly seen and honored—perhaps for the very first time in his life. And that, above every dossier and every clandestine alliance, is a mission worth everything on my desk.