Page 59 of The Bratva King

“I was just going to make a sandwich,” I blurt out.

“Okay.”

“Can I make you one?”

He considers the question. “Please.”

I pull out the meat, cheese, and condiments, grateful to be making something other than peanut butter and jelly. After stretching one jar across more meals than I care to count, this feels decadent.

He pulls a liquor bottle from a cabinet and pours himself a drink. He holds the bottle up to me in question.

Absolutely not. Terrible idea.

“Please,” I reply.

I don’t want to be rude. I’ve never had a decent scotch. I’m not sure I’ve ever even had scotch.

“Did the agency send nannies?”

“They did. I interviewed three.”

“And?”

“They were very good.”

He takes a sip and sets the other glass in front of me. “But.”

I layer meat onto his sandwich. “But I can’t afford them.”

He’s quiet. “I’ll cover it.”

“No.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“No.” I keep my voice even. “I appreciate it. I really do. But I’m not going to let you pay for my son’s childcare.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not something you do for someone you barely know. That’s not a casual thing.”

“I pay for things for a hundred people whose faces I couldn’t place. The valet. The kitchen staff at the casino. Most of the cleaning crew.”

“That’s different, and you know it.”

“How?”

“They work for you. They earn it. I haven’t earned anything. I’m living in your house, eating your food, and using your staff, and now you want to add a nanny to that list. At some point, the weight of what I owe you becomes too much.” Without thinking, I cut his sandwich in half. Two triangles, because that’s the only way Luke will eat one. “I’ve been taken care of before. There is always a price.”

I put his sandwich on a plate and hand it to him. “This isn’t a transaction,” he says.

“But it’s a debt.”

“Then call it a gift,” he says.

I almost laugh. “You don’t give people nannies as gifts.”

“Be reasonable.”