Chapter Thirty-Two
Cal
I give Rudi the day off as soon as I leave my mother’s this morning.
He has a daughter who is five years old and he’s been on back-to-back extended shifts.
And I can tell he misses his family. I watched him look at his phone yesterday and show Gio a picture of her.
That’s not the kind of man I want running security today. That’s a man who needs to see his kid.
Mick takes his place on the building rotation. Gio is with Sophia, Maggie, and Max for their breakfast and shopping morning, which Maggie organized with the energy of someone who has been wanting to do this since the moment Max walked into the kitchen. Three of our guys are in the area around them.
The neighborhood is clean.
They’re fine.
I sit in my office at the warehouse and work through the morning correspondence and think about the conversation I had with Nico last night that I haven’t finished thinking about.
People are getting anxious, Nico had said. About who’s making decisions.
The decisions are getting made. That’s all I said back.
What I didn’t say was that I’m aware of the timeline and the feelings around it.
I’m aware that what I’ve built here—this specific life, Max in law school, Sunday dinners, mornings at the 5th Street café, the penthouse becoming something that feels like a home—is only sustainable if the other thing is sustainable too.
And I’m aware that it isn’t, quite yet. That the Volkov situation is a clock, and clocks don’t stop because you’re having the best months of your adult life.
I know this. I just refuse to let it ruin the morning.
My phone buzzes.
Gio: just the every half-hour update you requested. all good here. at a second shop. they’ve tried on half the store, but i guess there are worse things.
I almost smile. Gio’s opinions on accompanying Max and the sisters through the boutiques came out this morning with professional discretion. Which means he said nothing while communicating his annoyance at the task with his face.
Me: stay with them until they’re done. no rush.
Gio: as if i have a choice.
I raise my eyebrows before another text comes through in quick succession.
Gio: I mean, yes, boss, of course, boss, I’m one of the girls now, boss
This does make me smile. Gio is younger, a little older than Sophia if I remember correctly. But he’s one of the better men when it comes to his awareness. I like that he’s willing to say things out loud that some of the older, more seasoned men won’t.
I go back to the work in front of me.
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes again.
It’s not from Gio.
It’s a photo.
It’s Max in a dressing room mirror, her phone held up at an angle, looking at something just off frame. She’s wearing a tight, dark green skirt with no shirt, just a black lacy bra.
I groan out loud and feel my blood rush below the belt.
She is wearing the expression of a person who has been handed the nuclear codes and intends to use them. Her hair is down. She looks—
She looks like herself. Radiant and real and like everything good.
And God damn fucking stunning.
The accompanying text from her says:
Max: Maggie is very convincing. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I might buy this skirt. Thoughts?
I look at the photo for a moment longer than is probably necessary to answer the question.
I am sitting alone in a room full of folders and the weight of everything I’m managing, and she sent me a picture from a dressing room in a little shop because she wanted to. My whole chest goes warm and quiet, and I press a palm into the unfamiliar feeling before responding.
Me: buy it. then re-enact this exact scene from this dressing room with me later.
Max: It’s expensive.
Max: But yes to the other thing.
Me: buy it.
A pause.
Max: Fine, but you will have to now quite literally pay for your sisters having unsupervised authority to buy me clothes with your credit card.
I put the phone down. I look at the correspondence in front of me again.
I think about the green skirt and my favorite restaurant we have been going to twice a week and the beaming look on her face when she smiles. I just think about her; her safe; her happy; her sending me dressing room photos.
Then I think about myself. Here, managing this world so she can stay in it.
This is what I’m doing it for. Right here.
I pick up the next folder and get back to work.