Vik (Shot Callers 2)

Sasha’s eyes narrowed in thought. After a moment, he nodded in agreement. “We’ll need to hash it out.”

“We have time,” Vik returned with cool conviction, and from my place in the dark, a slow smile stretched my mouth, and I hugged myself.

He was a natural. I could already tell he was going to be great.

And from the way Sasha observed him closely, he could too.

“Congratulations,” uttered Sasha, holding out his hand to Viktor. “You’ve got yourself an investor.”

Vik blinked down at that outstretched hand a long moment before he slapped it away and threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly with unspoken gratitude and brotherly affection. And while Sasha did not return it, he did allow it.

My heart remained a melting pile of goop in my chest. And as I observed the heartwarming scene in front of me, I thought on what my brother had said earlier.

Sasha was right. Building this business would not be easy.

It would mean time away from each other. Coming second for a while. Being supportive when all I wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs.

But we would make it work.

This was Viktor’s dream, and nobody was more deserving than him. If that meant sacrificing a small part of what we had to bring it to fruition, I’d eagerly give whatever was needed. No question.

And while we seemed to do everything out of order, we always got there in the end.

We simply took our time in getting to where we were going, taking the scenic route.

Epilogue

Nastasia

“My friends say that Uncle Sasha owns a titty bar,” Mila uttered, lightly tapping her spoon against her bowl from her place at the table. And as my brows creased at what the inquisitive little bird said, Vik’s surprised gaze met mine from across the kitchen, his shoulders only barely shaking in restrained laughter.

He jerked his chin toward his daughter. I narrowed my eyes at him, my mouth turning lax.

Oh no. No way. He was not doing this to me again.

I already had to explain why the dogs were trying to play leapfrog in the backyard. It was a little harder to explain why it resulted in a litter of the cutest German Shepherd puppies you ever did see.

We had a silent conversation.

My handsome husband shrugged lightly in a way that said, What? It’s better she hears it from you.

My hip popped with attitude while my brows rose in a way that said, You want to test me, bub? Go right ahead. I hope you enjoy being intimate with your hand for the foreseeable future.

The silent threat was obviously legible enough, because Vik lifted a hand, cocked his head to the side, and spoke out loud, “Baby….”

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, Mila looked between us. “Well? Is it true?”

It took everything I had to not feign a fainting spell and crawl out of the kitchen, far, far away.

Have kids, they said.

Best days of your life, they said.

No one warned you about the thousand and one awkward talks you’d have to have with them and how each time they said something like my daughter just had, a little part of you dies inside.

Inwardly, I mock-cried.

My face bunched with the sudden bad taste in my mouth, and my stomach twisted just enough to twinge. From my place behind the kitchen island, I took a deep breath, and a single brow rose as I thought really hard on how to tackle this.

It was true, of course, but I couldn’t very well tell her that.

Can’t we?

No.

Why not?

I don’t know. There are rules about this kind of thing. If I tell her, she tells her friends, and then all of a sudden, my child becomes a social pariah, her invitation to birthday parties conveniently lost in the mail.

“Well…” There was more than enough butter on the toast I was holding, but I just went on buttering, because being a parent was hard, and Mila had little mercy for her dear mom. “I mean… it’s not like…. I’m not really sure how to….”

Shit. I was panicking.

Was my throat closing up?

Why was it hard to breathe?

“Vik,” I begged quietly. “Would you say something?”

And this bitch.

He damn well nearly rolled his eyes at me before taking in a deep breath and running a hand over his neatly trimmed, lightly salted beard, his plain gold wedding band winking in a wandering ray of sunlight that escaped through the kitchen blinds.

“It’s not a titty bar,” Vik groused.

Thank God.

That was fine. It was enough. There was no need to delve further.

So, would someone tell me why this man—this senseless man—added, “It used to be a titty bar.”

Great. Why not just tell her that her uncle is a goddamn deviant?

Our daughter sat looking down at the table, her dark-brown hair pulled up into a high ponytail, those cynical blue eyes identical to her father’s. “Okay. Sooo…” She drew out the word, first looking to Vik, then over to me. “What’s a titty bar?”