Page 139 of The Bratva King

“She’s not one of your soldiers.” Pasha sets down his coffee. “She’s been on her own for a long time. She’s had to protect herself and her kid without anyone’s help. A parent will always believe they’re the best person to protect their child. Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Because a parent won’t hesitate to sacrifice their life for their child. It’s instinct. Hers is demanding she sacrifice herself, and you took that choice from her.”

I frown. “There wasn’t any real danger.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

I’m quiet, trying to fit that into what I know.

“You took away the only power she has—knowledge. Information.” He sighs and absently rubs the bandage on his head. “You made a decision about her son’s safety without consulting her. How do you think that makes her feel?”

“I was trying to protect her.”

“I know. But she doesn’t need to be protected from information. She needs you to trust her with it.”

Trust isn’t something I know how to do.

“I wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice my life for Luke,” I say.

He smiles. “I know. She’s still learning that.”

“What do you actually know about her?” Pasha asks softly. “This reaction might be coming from somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?”

“This woman who just appeared in your life a few weeks ago. You know she isn’t who she says she is. This could be a bigger problem than either of us knows.”

“What are you saying, Pasha? That she’s an asset planted in my home?” I think about her cursing in Italian. The fake identity. “She’s not who she says she is, but she’s not a threat.”

“Are you sure about that? Or have you been so blinded by the sex that you haven’t asked the hard questions?”

My anger flares. “Watch it.”

"I'm serious, Nik. She's living in your house. Around your people. Around your business. And you don't even know her real name."

My anger cools enough for me to hear what he’s saying. “You found something.”

“Not exactly.” He pulls out his phone. “I kept digging like you asked. Quietly. Every time I get close to something useful, the trail shuts down. Records that should exist don’t. Records that do exist are too clean. No mistakes. No loose ends.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ve built identities. I know what a good one costs. This is better than good. Someone protected her well enough that even I can’t pull the thread all the way.”

I hear what he isn’t saying, and I don’t like it. “You think this is bigger than a forged identity.”

He shrugs. “It’s possible. She’s likely hiding from someone with enough reach to make this necessary.”

My thumb and forefinger rub faster.

“You need to be careful,” Pasha says quietly. “I’m sorry. I know you like her. You care about the boy, but something isn’t right.”

My mind is cataloging every word, interaction, and reaction I've observed in Gabby. I put each one into a box. The fake name. The Italian curses she lets slip. A scared mother. Terrified of cops in a way that has nothing to do with speeding tickets.

None of it fits. Every piece I add makes the picture less clear.

I don't like incomplete pictures.