Page 63 of The Bratva King

“Come with me today,” I say.

Gabby looks up.

“Where?” she asks.

“Tatiana. The new property.” I look at Luke. “I thought he might want to see it.”

She looks at her son. Luke is watching her. Gauging her reaction to decide if he likes this idea.

“What do you think, buddy?” she says.

“Okay,” he answers.

“We’ll go get dressed,” Gabby says.

He slides off the chair and takes his bowl to the sink. A habit, I’ve noticed. She’s taught him that. He disappears down the hall with his blanket trailing behind him.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I don’t want us to get in the way.”

“You won’t be in the way.”

“He’ll ask you a thousand questions.”

“Good.”

She leaves the kitchen, and I pour a cup of coffee. They’re settling in. She doesn’t jump or stiffen when I walk into a room. I think she might wait up for me at night. She makes me something to eat when I come home. The first two nights, I thought I might explode. Yesterday, I was smart and skipped dinner.

Thirty minutes later, I’m loading them into the SUV. Gabby pauses when she sees the car seat waiting for Luke. Pasha helped me pick it out.

“How did you know?” she breathes.

I shrug. “Safety first.”

That makes her laugh. The sound is melodic. I don’t normally make people laugh. They don’t get me. Pasha laughs at me and with me. My brothers laugh. Well, Maksim laughs. Sergei, not so much.

I like her laugh. I want to hear more of it. Preferably when she’s looking at me.

I’m using a driver today and sit in the front passenger seat. Pasha has me thinking about safety and enemies. It’s risky being seen with Gabby and Luke. If one of those assholes pulls something, I need to be ready and able to protect them.

The SUV pulls up to the front of the building. Security is aware of my visit. Extra precautions have been taken. One of the men opens Luke’s door.

“I’ve got him,” Gabby says quickly.

I nod at my man, who closes the door. The three of us climb out on the same side.

“It’s tall,” Luke says.

“Forty stories,” I tell him.

Gabby takes his hand. She’s in jeans and a loose white shirt. She’s got her hair down, and I prefer it that way. I’ve noticed she puts it up a lot. And that exposes her dark roots. I knew she wasn’t a natural blonde.

“It’s beautiful,” she says quietly.

“It will be,” I say. “It’s not finished.”

“Even unfinished.” She looks at the lower three floors of glass panels. “You can see what it’s going to be.”

“Come on.” I lead them toward the entrance.