Damien
Riley's settled on the couch by the window in my office, her presence softening the otherwise stark room. I'm on yet another call, my voice dropping into Russian as the conversation veers into Bratva matters—territories, shipments, the latest intel on Franco Moretti's movements.
Riley doesn't know about this side of my life, and I intend to keep it that way. She's looking out the window, but I notice her gaze flick over to me every so often, a curious spark in her eyes when she hears the Russian slipping easily from my mouth.
I finish the call, muttering a clipped "До связи" (Until next time) before hanging up. She's watching me openly now, her head tilted in that way she does when she's trying to figure something out.
I walk over, crossing the room in a few strides before sitting down next to her. I pull her into my lap, feeling her body relax as she leans into me.
