Page 137 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
"Large?"
"I was going to say intense." She swallowed. "They're also large. Both things."
"They are," I agreed, and pulled a stack of five hardcover books from my tote bag. "I brought you something."
I set them on the counter. The cover was dark and abstract, showing a skull with a snake winding through the eye sockets, and across the bottom, in silver lettering wasMaeve Petrov.
Lena's hands flew to her mouth. "No. No way. This is your book?"
"I wanted the Highland Bean to have them first."
Tears slid down her cheek as she grabbed a pen from beside the till and shoved it at me. "Sign them. All of them. Right now. I'm putting one in the window."
"You can't put a dark romance novel in a café window."
"I can put whatever I want in my window. I'm the owner. I have power and I'm not afraid to abuse it."
I signed the books while Lena kept glancing at Ivan like she expected him to produce a weapon from somewhere. He was holding Mila, which probably helped. It was hard to look threatening with a toddler yanking your sweater.
"We can't stay long," I said, checking my watch. "We have a flight."
"A holiday?"
"A welcome party. My best friend just had another baby. We're going to France for a celebration."
Fifteen minutes later, Lena handed me a paper bag of muffins. "Take these. The lemon poppy seed ones. I remember you liked them."
I looked at the bag. At the café. At the green door and the brass bells and the framed review and the girl behind the till, I remembered I was poor but happy when there.
"For what it's worth," Lena said quietly, "you built something good here. Even if you had to leave it. It mattered."
I hugged her. Hard and fast, before the tears could catch up. "Thank you. For keeping it alive."
"Someone had to. You were too busy becoming a mafia wife and writing books."
"Bratva. I left the mafia behind."
"Oh my god, there's a difference?"
"Apparently. Artem was very specific about it."
Lena looked at Artem. "He doesn't look very specific about anything right now."
"He's off duty."
The Mediterranean glittered below us like a postcard that refused to be subtle.
Presley's villa sprawled down the hillside in terraces of cream stone and blue shutters, olive trees twisting out of gravel beds, bougainvillea spilling over every wall in shades of pink and orange that looked so beautiful and French. The distant sea went on forever. The air smelled of warm stone, lemons, and too many children with access to marshmallows and a chocolate fountain.
Mac was chasing Presley's eldest daughter around the garden. Mila had sat down in the grass and was methodically destroying a croissant, feeding pieces to one of Presley's twin boys who appeared to be accepting them because he was brought up right and didn’t want to upset her.
I sat with Presley under a large umbrella, sipping sparkling water while she bounced her newest arrival—a tiny, sleeping baby boy—against her chest. Four children. She looked exhausted and radiant in equal measure, the way women do when they've made peace with chaos.
"So," she said, patting the baby's back. "Have you heard from Mary? Did she finally settle in Boston? I remember her struggling."
“I wouldn’t say she’s settled, but after hearing our father came to the house looking for her, she decided Boston was a betterplace to hide, and went back to give it another shot.” I swirled the ice in my glass. "But she's pregnant."
Presley stopped bouncing. "No way."
