17. Gabby
Gabby
The nanny’s name is Kylie, and she is worth every penny Nikolai is paying her.
I couldn’t bring myself to hire someone. It felt like too much.
Nikolai did it for me. He showed me her résumé, asked what I thought, and when I said she looked good, he informed me he’d already hired her.
I’d feel guilty about it if she wasn’t so amazing.
She arrived at seven-thirty this morning with a tote bag full of sensory tools and a laminated daily schedule she’d made specifically for Luke.
She called two days ago and asked me questions for forty minutes.
About his preferred foods. What his wind-down routine looked like.
If he had a preferred spot in a room. If he needed a warning before transitions.
If he responded better to visual cues or verbal ones.
After we ended the call, I went into the bathroom and cried.
Nobody had ever asked me those questions. Not Carla. Not any of the three sitters before her. I’m not crazy. I’m not the overprotective helicopter parent the other babysitters have made me feel like.
Greg has been supportive, but he’s never met Luke. He doesn’t understand.
Kylie gets it, and she came prepared.
The pediatrician we saw yesterday seemed to understand Luke, too. Nikolai made the appointment materialize out of thin air after two other offices told me their next available opening was in February.
The pediatrician referred us to a child psychologist who specializes in what Luke needs. The appointment is next week. Not three months. Not next year.
I keep waiting for the catch.
There isn’t one. Or if there is, I haven’t found it yet.
I check my phone for the fourth time in the past hour. Kylie’s last text was at eleven-thirty.
Lunch finished. He ate well. We’re doing puzzles now.
She sent a photo of Luke sitting at the kitchen table in the breakfast nook with a puzzle spread out in front of him, his blanket folded on the chair beside him. He looked focused. He looked calm.
He looked fine.
I put my phone back in my pocket and take a slow breath.
He’s fine. He’s completely fine. I’m the one who isn’t.
The floor is busy for a Tuesday afternoon. Full of summer tourists hiding from the heat and spending money here while they do it. I’ve been running a steady table since my shift started. Tips have been decent, which is an improvement over the past few weeks, when everything that could go wrong did.
I almost feel like a person again. A week of actual sleep in an actual bed in a room where the AC works and there are no cockroaches. A week of good meals and the most luxurious showers I’ve experienced.
And Luke is happy. He’s developing a new routine. We still share a bedroom and a bed. I’m not sure if that’s for my benefit or his. I’m starting to think he might be okay in his own room.
That’s the part that scares me most. How quickly he’s settled.
My break comes at two. I take it in the employee break room with a cold Diet Coke. I lean my head back against the wall and let myself feel it for just a second. The relief. The gratitude. The terrifying luxury of not being afraid of tomorrow.
I push off the wall before I can linger in it too long.
I take the stairs up to the administrative floor and stop short when a man the size of a refrigerator steps into my path.
“No,” he says.
“I need to speak with Mr. Sokolov.”
“He asked not to be disturbed.”
“Is he in his office?”
“He’s busy.”
“I heard you, but I really need to see him.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Look, it’ll take two minutes. Trust me, he wants to talk to me.”
Nothing.
“Please, can you just tell Mr. Sokolov I’m here?”
He looks at me, and every insecurity I have rises at once. He thinks I’m lying. Or nuts. A stalker.
“Name?”
“Gabby Collins.”
He speaks quietly into his sleeve. In Russian, of course. I hear my name, followed by a short response through his earpiece.
He steps aside. “Private elevator. Top floor.”
I walk fast before he can change his mind.
The elevator requires a key card. He scans his card, presses the button, and the doors close between us.
When they open, another guard is waiting. He leads me down a quiet hallway and stops outside a set of dark double doors.
“Go ahead.”
I knock twice.
“Come in,” Nikolai calls.
I push open the door.
He’s behind his desk with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing an array of tattoos. He looks up from his laptop and sees me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Miss Collins.”
“Gabby. Please.”
I step inside and close the door behind me. The office is quiet. From up here, I can see the casino floor below, but no one can see in. From here, Nikolai can see everything.
“I just wanted to come and say thank you.” I take a breath and walk around his desk. I don’t want anything between us when I say this. “You have done more for me and my son in a week than anyone has ever done for me.”
He continues to watch me with those piercing blue eyes.
“Nobody has ever understood the challenges. I think you do.”
He turns in his chair until he’s facing me. I take another step closer, my eyes locked on his. I came in here to say thank you, but that’s not all I want anymore.
His gaze drops to my mouth before he meets my eyes again. The air tightens between us. Until now, I’ve only let myself see the man who helped us. The man who made Luke feel safe.
Right now, I see the man I want to touch. The man I want touching me.
I lean down and kiss him. My lips brush his, and for a brief second, he doesn’t react.
And then he’s standing, towering over me, his hand sliding over the back of my neck and into my hair. His mouth crashes into mine. I part my lips, and his tongue slides inside. Heat tears through me. I didn’t know a man could make me feel like this with just his mouth.
I step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He tightens his fist in my hair and tips my head back, taking the kiss deeper. I let out a soft moan against his mouth.
Then he pulls back and puts both hands on my shoulders, holding me away from him.
I open my eyes, struggling to catch my breath. The room is spinning.
“No,” he says.
I freeze.
“No?”
I don’t have much experience, but I know he wanted that kiss.
“That’s not what this is,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“You don’t owe me this.” His voice is calm, but rougher than before. “What I’ve done for you and Luke isn’t a transaction. I’m not collecting on it.”
My face burns. “That’s not why I kissed you.”
“You don’t have to offer yourself to me because I helped you.”
I’m humiliated. Ashamed. Pissed.
“That’s what you think I was doing?”
“I think you’re grateful, and that you don’t know how else to pay me back.”
“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “Stop talking.”
He stops.
“I kissed you because I wanted to,” I say.
“Not because I felt obligated. Not because I owed you anything. Because I wanted to, and because for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself do something I wanted to do. I’m not prostituting myself.
” I straighten my shoulders, holding on to what’s left of my pride.
“I’ve done a lot of things out of desperation, but that was not what that was. ”
He watches me with a blank expression, and I wish I knew what he was thinking.
I am mortified. “I misread something, and I’m sorry for putting you in an uncomfortable position. It won’t happen again.”
I turn and walk to the door.
“Gabby.”
Oh my God, the way he says my name. Rough and quiet. Like he wants me to stay but doesn’t know how to ask.
I pull the door open. “I have to get back to the floor,” I say. “My break is almost over.”
I walk out of his office, down the hall, and take the stairs back to the casino floor. I stop in the bathroom, fix my hair, and avoid looking at myself. I can’t believe I just did that. I haven’t been with a man since my husband. I haven’t wanted to.
But Nikolai in his all-black outfits, with those tattoos and those damn eyes, awoke something in me.
Damn him.
His rejection hurts.
I take my place behind the table, smile at the couple waiting, and begin the chip count with the dealer I’m relieving.
My face is warm, and I keep my eyes on the cards. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. He was making sure I didn’t feel used or pressured. He meant well, even if the way he handled it was all wrong.
I deal the first hand.
He thought I was paying him. He assessed me kissing him and determined that I was a woman settling a debt with her body.
Maybe I am.
I deal the second hand.
The man at the end of my table wins and pumps his fist.
I slide his chips over and smile like my whole face isn’t on fire. I don’t look up at the window, but I feel his eyes on me.
A man takes the seat at the end of my table as I start a new shoe.
I notice him the way I register everyone.
A man, maybe fifty. Neat clothes. Not flashy.
A polo shirt and slacks that fit well. No visible jewelry except a watch.
Not an expensive one. Brown hair in a horrible comb-over.
He sets down a modest stack of chips and arranges them with two fingers.
I offer a slight smile and deal.
“You look familiar,” he says.
I keep pulling cards.
“I get that a lot,” I say pleasantly. “Dealer face, probably. We all start to look the same after a while.”
“Maybe.” He continues to stare at me a little too long.
I deal the hand. He looks at his cards. Seventeen. He waves off, and I turn over my hole card. Nineteen. I collect his chips, and he nods like he expected it.
“You from Vegas originally?” he asks.
“Nope.” I keep my voice easy. Friendly. The voice I use with everyone. “You?”
“No,” he says. “I travel a lot for work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Finance,” he says.
Small talk is part of the game. The friendlier I am, the more tips I get. I’m good at this. I can read people and figure out how much to say and when a jealous wife wants me to back off.
“I’m trying to place it,” he says. “The face.”
“I just have one of those faces,” I say. “Very common.”
My voice is calm. My smile steady. My heart is a different story. I keep my breathing even and don’t let my racing pulse show.
I watch him too, just not as obviously.
He’s not a tourist.
He wins the hand.
“Were you ever in New York?” he asks.
Shit.
I don’t feel a spike of panic. Just the kind of cold that comes right before something bad happens.
I smile. “I’ve been to New York, sure. Who hasn’t?” I gesture around the table at the other two players. “Place your bets, gentlemen.”
The man at the end of the table pushes his chips forward, but he’s still watching me. He’s reading me. Can he see my pulse pounding in my throat?
I tell myself I look nothing like her. Gabriella has black hair and expensive clothes.
Thin. Perfect manicure. I’m blonde. I’m twenty pounds heavier.
I’m wearing a casino uniform and flat shoes.
Short nails. Little makeup. I’ve spent five years becoming someone else so completely that some mornings, I forget what my own face used to look like.
I’m not the mafia princess I was five years ago.
“Jersey, maybe?” he says. “Did you spend time in Jersey?”
I look at him, and this time, I let the smile fall for just a second.
“I grew up in Ohio,” I say. “Columbus. Go Buckeyes.”
He smiles again. “Right.”
I hear Greg’s voice in the back of my head.
Trust your gut, Gabby. Logic will talk you out of it every time. Your gut doesn’t lie.
My gut is screaming.
I deal the next hand, keeping each breath slow and even as my gaze shifts to where security should be standing.
The nearest is Joel. I’ve worked alongside him enough times that we’ve developed a shorthand. A look. A gesture. The signal that means I need someone removed from my table.
But his focus is on a drunk couple making a scene at the roulette table.
Fuck.
“Have you worked here long?” he asks.
“A while,” I say.
“You’re good.”
“Thank you.”
I settle my hand near the shoe and scratch the felt twice with two fingers. The eye in the sky will see. He’ll tell Joel.
It’s taking every ounce of self-control not to panic and run. That’s what he wants. To keep pushing until I give myself away.
I glance up. Joel touches his earpiece, then his eyes lock on mine. He’s coming. Thank God, he’s coming.
The man at the end of the table studies his cards. Or pretends to.
“Thank you for the game,” he says from behind him. “I’m going to need you to come with me, sir.”
The man turns his head slowly. He looks at the security guard. Then he looks at me. There’s nothing hostile in his expression. No surprise either, which is the part that makes my stomach clench.
Most people are surprised. Or pissed.
“Of course.” He picks up his remaining chips and slides off the stool without being asked.
He doesn’t look back at me as Joel guides him away.
Not again. I don’t want to run again.