27. Gabby
Gabby
I pull into the garage feeling lighter than I have in a long time. I didn’t get the chance to talk to Nik about the therapy. I think he’ll be interested. It feels good to have someone to talk to about these things who actually cares.
Luke should be in bed. Kylie texted and said she would stick around until I got home. I assumed it was because Nik was working late.
Kylie is in the kitchen. I take one look at her and know something is wrong. “Is Luke okay?” I ask.
“Yes. He’s in bed. I put him down about twenty minutes ago.”
“Did he have a rough day?”
She smiles. “No. Not at all. We swam for a bit. In the shallow end, but he had fun.”
I nod, but I can tell something is off. “Okay. Thank you.”
“He’s excited about getting his new room tomorrow,” she says.
“Yes, he is.”
I head upstairs and slip quietly into the room Luke and I are sharing until tomorrow.
I sit on the edge of the bed and lean down to kiss him goodnight.
“Mom, Mila is here,” Luke whispers.
I blink. “Mila? Pasha’s daughter?”
“Yes. She’s in another room.”
That’s odd. I wasn’t expecting a playdate today. Maybe Nikolai arranged it as a surprise.
“Oh. A sleepover.”
“Nik got hurt.”
I freeze. “What?”
“He has lots of owwies. And blood.”
“Nikolai had blood on him?”
Luke nods. “He’s okay. I put a band-aid on him.”
I swallow. “Good job, buddy.”
I kiss his forehead. “Go to sleep. I’ll be in later.”
I start downstairs, expecting to find Nik in his study having his usual nightcap, but the light beneath his bedroom door catches my attention.
I walk down the hall and knock softly. “Nik?”
I hear a soft groan. I try the handle and open the door just a crack. It’s intrusive, but I’m too worried to care.
He’s just stepping out of the bathroom. The lights are on, and he’s wearing only a pair of briefs. My breath catches as I take in the sight of him.
“Nikolai,” I whisper.
His shoulder is bruised. Dark purple spreads across his skin. His forearm has angry red marks, some still seeping blood. There’s a cut near his hairline. He’s slightly hunched over, his careful movements giving away how much pain he’s in.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
I move closer, reaching for his arm. He pulls back slightly, but I catch his wrist and examine the wounds. “This needs to be properly cleaned before it gets infected.”
“I showered. I’m clean.”
“Not your body. Sit down on the toilet.”
He looks like he might argue, then changes his mind and moves carefully to the toilet.
“First-aid kit? I’m guessing you’ve got enough supplies for a small army.”
“Cabinet.” He gestures to a tall narrow cabinet in the corner.
I open it, and the supplies inside looks like it belongs in a hospital supply room.
“Right.” I pull out what I need. “Have you taken any painkillers?”
“No.”
“Stubborn,” I mutter.
I drop bandages, gauze, and some antibiotic cream on the counter. Then I grab a bottle of ibuprofen. He probably needs something stronger, but I doubt he’d take it.
I stare at his arm in the bright light and lean closer. “What the hell?”
I reach out, using my fingers to pull out something sharp and black. I look closer and realize there are more. It’s hard to spot the damage beneath all the ink.
“Dammit, Nik. Tell me you went to a hospital and that they somehow missed this.”
“No.”
“Cazzo.” I turn back to the cabinet for tweezers.
I return and bend closer, studying the wounds beneath the ink.
“This is going to sting,” I warn him.
“I know.”
I pour antiseptic over the wounds on his forearm. He doesn’t flinch. I use the tweezers to pull several tiny shards from his skin.
“Luke said you had blood on you.”
“Most of it was Pasha’s.”
I stop pulling out the shards. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. He was unconscious when I left.”
I set down the tweezers and pull him against me. Just for a second. He’s been through too much, and I can see him starting to retreat into himself. He’s strong and puts on a good front, but I’ve learned when he needs to withdraw.
I release him and return to tending his injuries.
I finish cleaning one arm and wrap it in gauze before checking the other. It isn’t nearly as bad.
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
“Car bomb. Meant for me.”
His tone is so calm it takes me a second to understand what he just said.
“A bomb.”
“Yes.”
“Someone tried to kill you.”
“Yes.”
I take a deep breath, trying to process. Another car bomb. How is it possible that I know exactly what he’s experiencing? I finish his arm and carefully comb my fingers through his hair, checking his scalp for cuts or swelling.
My fingers find a tender spot near his hairline, and he winces.
“Did you get knocked unconscious?” I ask.
“No. I remember every second.”
“Ears still ringing?”
“Some.”
I don’t find any other cuts.
“How close were you?”
“Forty feet.”
“It knocked you down?”
“Yeah.”
I inspect his shoulder. It’s badly bruised, but he can move it, so I don’t think anything is broken. I push his hair back to examine the cut more closely.
Fury and fear twist tight inside me.
“Who would do this?” I ask. “Who would blow up your car?”
“The Italians.”
The gauze remains pressed to his forehead, but my hand goes still.
“What Italians?”
He looks at me. “There’s a family. You’d call them the mob. They’ve been trying to push me out of Vegas for years. They don’t like that I’m expanding into territory they think belongs to them.”
My mouth is dry. “The Italian mob.”
“Yes.”
“And they just... blow up cars? In broad daylight?”
“When they want to make a point, yes.”
I can’t breathe. They’re here. Of course, they are. But it has to be a different family. A different war.
I swallow against the lump in my throat and turn on the water to hide my shaking hands.
“And they just blew up your car?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“This has been an ongoing feud?”
“Not like this,” he says. “Gabby, I think I need to tell you who I am.”
It feels like my head is underwater, and my pulse is rushing in my ears.
“Okay,” I squeak.
I reach for a towel and dry my hands, putting some distance between us.
“My brother is pakhan in New York,” Nikolai continues.
“Head of the Bratva there. In our world, there are several families. Russians. Italians. The Irish. Chinese. Put us anywhere on the planet, and we’ll fight for territory.
My brother is at the top of the food chain in New York.
My other brother, Maksim, is in Miami. He does a better job getting along with everyone.
I’ve ignored the Italians here for too long. Today, they escalated.”
Pakhan. Bratva. Italian mob.
I knew what Nikolai was, but I didn’t understand how deep it went. Or how close it reached to my old life.
“Gabby.”
I blink. He’s watching me with those intense blue eyes.
“Are you okay?”
Am I okay? No. Nikolai’s family is tied to New York, and my son is asleep down the hall, while men are blowing up cars to get to him.
“I don’t think...” I stop and start again. “Maybe it’s not a good idea for us to stay here.”
His expression hardens. “No.”
“Nikolai, someone just tried to kill you. They killed your driver. They hurt Pasha. What if Luke had been in that car?”
“He wasn’t.”
“But he could have been!”
I begin to pace. My hands are shaking again, and this time, I can’t make them stop.
“You’re safe,” he says. “They were sending a message.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
I want to scream. “Nikolai, be reasonable. What happens when they realize Luke and I live here? What happens when they decide the best way to hurt you is to hurt us?”
“That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that!”
He stands. “I do.” He cups my face in his hands, holding me still until I look at him. “I will protect you. Both of you. No one touches what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
The words come out automatically. Because if I’m not his, I can leave. I can run. I can protect Luke the only way I know how.
“I’m not a possession you can claim.”
The look in his eyes stops me. There’s nothing controlling in it, only a fierce certainty that makes me feel safe. Protected. Like he would burn down the world before he let anyone hurt us.
I’ve never had that.
I want to believe him. But how can I trust a man with enemies like this to protect my son?
“Can we lie down?” he asks. “Please.”
That small concession tells me how much he’s hurting. How much he needs me.
“I’ll get you tucked in.”
I settle him into bed, but when I pull away, he catches my hand. He doesn’t say the words, but I see it in his eyes.
I lie down carefully beside him.
“My men understand that things have changed,” he says. “They will not have an opportunity to get close to you or Luke. I swear, on my life, that you will be safe. This is one thing I know how to do very well. We have security protocols. We’ve been complacent. That ends now. You will not be hurt.”
That’s the most he’s said at one time since I’ve met him.
He’s trying. That means a lot. And a man who’s survived this world for this long has to know how to keep us safe.
He’s been honest. I should tell him. He needs to know the threat isn’t just from the Italians in Vegas.
I can’t though. Not now. He’s dealing with enough already.
“Sleep,” I tell him.
“Stay.”
I don’t know if he means for the night or for good. I brush my lips across his and settle carefully against him.
I stay until his breathing evens out, and the truth settles somewhere deep inside me.
For the first time in five years, I don’t want to run.