Mile High Daddy: An Age Gap, Bratva Romance (Forbidden Silver Foxes)
Mile High Daddy: Chapter 3

For a moment, I sit frozen in my seat, staring at Mikhail like he’s just spoken another language. That can be arranged. Did he really just say that? No, I must have misheard him. The adrenaline, the panic—it’s messing with my head. Surely, he didn’t mean it.

I’m about to ask, but the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom again, jarring me back into reality.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve cleared the turbulence, and everything is stable now. However, due to a minor technical issue with one of our engines, we’ll be making an unscheduled landing at the nearest airport for precautionary checks. Please remain seated and follow all instructions from the cabin crew. Thank you for your understanding.”

The murmurs in the cabin swell into frustrated groans. I glance out the window at the endless stretch of clouds and sky, my nerves still frayed despite the reassurance that we’re out of danger. My mind should be focused on logistics—where we’re landing, how I’m going to get to New York—but all I can think about is Mikhail’s words.

His smirk lingers in my mind, replaying over and over, a maddening echo that sends heat coursing through me. I sneak a glance at him. He’s relaxed in his seat, his long legs stretched out, looking like he owns not just first class but the entire plane.

I need a minute. Or an hour. Or maybe a time machine to undo the absolute chaos that is my life.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, standing up.

Mikhail’s gaze flicks to me, his brow arching slightly, but he says nothing. I hurry down the aisle, weaving past a flight attendant, and duck into the cramped bathroom at the front of the plane.

Once inside, I lean against the door, my breaths coming out in short, uneven bursts. The tiny space feels suffocating, but it’s better than sitting out there, under his piercing gaze. I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the embarrassment, the tension, the ridiculous thoughts swirling in my mind.

I grip the edges of the counter, staring at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, my hair a mess, and my eyes—God, my eyes are still wild with the adrenaline of the last half hour.

The faint sound of footsteps outside makes me freeze. A moment later, the door handle turns, and before I can react, the door swings open.

Mikhail steps inside.

The small space feels even smaller as he closes the door behind him, the lock clicking into place. My heart lurches into my throat.

“What are you⁠—”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he moves toward me, his body filling the narrow bathroom like he’s taking up all the oxygen. Before I can even think to stop him, his hands are on me—one curling around the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist.

And then his mouth crashes against mine.

It’s not a question, not a request. It’s a command, and I’m powerless to do anything but obey. His lips are firm, demanding, and I feel the sharp edge of his control unraveling as he presses me back against the counter. My hands fly to his chest, not to push him away but to pull him closer, because the way he’s kissing me makes the ground beneath me feel unstable.

The cold edge of the counter digs into my back, but I barely notice it. All I can feel is him—his heat, his strength, the way his mouth moves over mine like he’s been starving for this moment.

My mind spins as his tongue slides into my mouth, coaxing. This is insane. This is completely insane. And yet, I don’t want him to stop.

A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, and the vibration travels through me, making my knees weak. His hands leave my face, sliding down to my waist and pulling me flush against him.

I gasp into his mouth as his fingers slip beneath the hem of my shirt, his palms skimming the bare skin of my sides. The cool metal of his watch grazes my stomach, and the contrast of cold and heat sends a shiver through me. His hands roam higher, his thumbs brushing the underside of my bra, and my body arches into his touch, desperate for more. My nipples harden to pebbles as he strokes them through the cotton of my bra. I’m pooling wet between thighs.

“Mikhail,” I whisper against his lips, my voice trembling.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gray eyes burning with intensity. I can feel his hard cock press into my belly. His thumb strokes the edge of my jaw, his lips curving into a dark, satisfied smile. “You taste as sweet as I imagined, kiska.”

His forehead rests against mine, his gray eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“I don’t think you misunderstood me,” he says, his voice low and rough.

I blink up at him, my heart hammering in my chest. “You…you’re serious?”

His lips curl into that maddening smirk, and his hand tightens on my waist, his thumb brushing against my hip in a way that makes my breath hitch. “Deadly serious.”

My heart pounds, my breathing ragged as he leans down again, his mouth replaceing my neck this time. His teeth graze my skin, followed by the soft heat of his tongue, and my knees threaten to give out entirely.

There’s a knock at the door, sharp and impatient, pulling me back to reality.

“Mikhail,” I manage, my voice breathless.

He doesn’t move right away. Instead, his hands stay firmly on my waist, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “This isn’t over.”

Before I can respond, he straightens, adjusting his suit like nothing happened. He unlocks the door and steps out, leaving me pressed against the counter, my legs trembling and my mind racing.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my lips swollen, my skin flushed. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.

What the hell just happened?

I step out, only to replace myself face-to-face with the flight attendant from earlier. Her lips are pursed, her arms crossed, and her perfectly arched eyebrows practically touch her hairline. It’s obvious she knows.

Her gaze flicks past me toward the bathroom, then back to me, her expression dripping with disdain.

“Everything all right, ma’am?” she asks, her voice icy.

“Perfect,” I reply, pasting on a smile as fake as her nails. With a flick of my hair, I stride past her, trying to look unbothered.

I can practically feel her glare scorching my back, but I don’t dare glance over my shoulder. It’s a miracle I’m still standing, let alone attempting confidence, but every ounce of bravery I’ve summoned evaporates the moment I see him.

Mikhail.

He’s back in his seat, one ankle resting casually on his opposite knee, his hand wrapped loosely around a glass of water. When his eyes meet mine, the corner of his mouth lifts into the faintest smirk, like he knows exactly what’s running through my mind.

I quickly avert my gaze and slide into my seat, suddenly hyperaware of everything—the way my lips still tingle from his kiss, the heat of his hands that lingers on my skin. I grip the armrests and stare out the window, trying to pretend he doesn’t exist.

The plane begins its descent, and the pilot announces over the intercom that we’re landing at Harrisburg International Airport in Pennsylvania. It’s not exactly close to New York, but it’s closer than Chicago. That’s something, I guess.

But instead of relief, dread settles in the pit of my stomach. I still have to figure out how I’m going to get to New York. Randall, my school principal, is counting on me to be there. He’s supposed to be handling everything for this big educational conference we’re hosting, but of course he dumped the responsibility on me at the last minute. If I don’t make it, the whole thing could fall apart, and I’ll be the one blamed.

The plane dips lower, and I clutch the armrests tighter, as if holding them will somehow keep my sanity intact. Beside me, Mikhail shifts, leaning just slightly into my space.

“You can’t ignore me forever, kiska,” he says, his voice low and rich like a dark promise.

My breath catches, but I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the window. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“You were.”

“I’m not now.”

He chuckles, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine. “Then look at me.”

I swallow hard, refusing to turn my head. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” I blurt out, my voice sharper than I intended. “About…you know. I was scared. That’s all.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “I see.”

His tone is impossible to read, and I finally risk a glance at him. His expression is calm, but there’s something in his eyes—something that makes my stomach flip and twist.

Before I can say anything else, the plane lands with a gentle thud, and the cabin fills with the usual shuffle of people unbuckling their seat belts and gathering their things. I exhale, relieved to have an excuse to escape this conversation.

We file out of the plane, stepping into the modest Harrisburg International Airport. It’s smaller and quieter than the major hubs, which only emphasizes the fact that I’m now hours away from where I need to be.

I stand in the terminal, pulling out my phone to check the distance to New York. Four hours by car. Great.

“Lila.”

I glance up to replace Mikhail standing in front of me. His hands are casually in his pockets, but his expression is anything but casual. “I assume you’re headed to New York.”

“Yes,” I say, hesitatingly. I’ve no idea where he’s heading with this.

“I’m headed there, as well,” he says.

“Well, yes. We were on the same flight,” I say.

He chuckles. “I appreciate your candor.”

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“I’m not used to being spoken to like this,” he says, his gaze making me shiver.

Who are you? I want to ask.

“I can take you.”

I stare at him, my brain scrambling for a reason to say no, but I come up blank. Between the conference, my tight budget, and the four-hour drive looming ahead of me, the offer is tempting. Too tempting.

“Why would you do that?” I ask, crossing my arms.

He steps closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “Because I can.”

His answer shouldn’t make my heart race, but it does.

“I don’t even know you,” I say weakly.

“You know enough,” he counters, and the way he says it makes me feel like he’s the one in control—not just of this moment, but of me.

My instincts scream at me to walk away, but my body seems to have other ideas.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Against my better judgment, I trail behind Mikhail as we make our way through the terminal. My brain is screaming at me to rethink this decision—who agrees to ride four hours with a stranger? But my feet keep moving, following his confident strides like I don’t have a choice in the matter.

When we reach the baggage claim, I step toward the carousel to grab my suitcase, but Mikhail stops beside me, his hand resting lightly on my arm.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he says.

Before I can argue, the massive, beefy man from our flight (whose seat I stole, apparently) steps forward like he’s been summoned by some invisible signal. Without a word, he snatches my suitcase off the belt and hefts it like it weighs nothing.

“Uh, thanks?” I say, blinking at the sheer size of the man. He looks like he could bench-press the carousel itself.

Mikhail chuckles, the sound low and amused.

“Is he your bodyguard or something?” I ask, only half joking.

“Something like that,” Mikhail replies, his smirk firmly in place.

The beefy man gestures for us to follow, and we step outside into the brisk air. A sleek, black luxury car—no, scratch that, a fortress on wheels—is parked at the curb, gleaming under the airport lights.

“Wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “We’re going in that?”

Mikhail glances over his shoulder at me, one brow raised. “Of course.”

Of course. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The car is massive, all tinted windows and sharp lines, the kind of vehicle that screams untouchable. The driver stands by the door, holding it open like we’re royalty.

Mikhail gestures for me to step in first, and I hesitate, my brain scrambling to process what’s happening. I’ve been on school buses more luxurious than the car I drive, and now I’m about to climb into something that probably costs more than my entire life.

“Go ahead, kiska,” he says, his tone both commanding and impossibly smooth.

I slide into the back seat, trying to look like I belong there, but the buttery leather and spacious interior make it abundantly clear that I don’t.

I can’t stop myself from sneaking a glance at him.

“How rich are you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He turns to me, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Rich enough.”

“That’s not an answer,” I counter, though my voice lacks conviction.

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he says, leaning back in his seat, his gaze flicking to me briefly before settling on the window.

I bite my lip, staring out the opposite window, trying to piece together the puzzle that is Mikhail. He’s clearly wealthy—ridiculously wealthy. And the way that man from the plane responded to him? Yeah, there’s more to him than he’s letting on.

“What do you do for work?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

His eyes slide back to me, and for a moment, I swear I see something dark flicker there, something he doesn’t want me to see. “Business,” he says simply.

“Business,” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

“And you? What do you do, Lila?”

I hesitate, glancing at him. His tone is casual, but his gaze is sharp, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s genuinely interested. Still, I’m not sure how much I want to share. “I’m a teacher,” I say, keeping it simple.

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “What kind of teacher?”

“Elementary,” I reply, glancing out the window. “Kindergarten, mostly.”

“Ah,” he says, his tone softening. “That suits you.”

I blink, turning back to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You seem patient,” he says with a faint smile, “and kind. Qualities not everyone has.”

I don’t know why, but the compliment catches me off guard. “Well, it’s not as glamorous as what you do,” I say, deflecting.

“No,” he agrees, his smirk returning. “But I’d argue it’s more important.”

Before I can decide how to respond to that, my phone buzzes in my lap, the screen lighting up with a name I’d hoped to avoid for a little longer: Randall. My stomach twists.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, swiping to answer.

“Where are you?” Randall’s voice barks through the line, loud and agitated.

“I’m on my way,” I say quickly, trying to keep my tone calm. “There was an issue with my flight, but I’m driving to New York now. I’ll be there⁠—”

“You better be!” he cuts me off. “Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under right now? I can’t handle this on my own, Lila! You should’ve been here hours ago!”

“I couldn’t control the flight delay⁠—”

“I don’t care!” he snaps, his words sharp and grating. “If you’re not here on time, this whole thing will fall apart, and guess who’s going to take the blame? Not me!”

The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at my phone, stunned, the weight of his words settling heavily on my shoulders.

“Trouble?”

I jump slightly, turning to replace Mikhail watching me. His expression is calm, but there’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes.

“Just my boss,” I say, forcing a weak smile.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Your boss is the one who just yelled at you?”

I flush, realizing he must have heard the entire conversation. “Yeah. He’s…not the most patient person.”

“Who is he?”

I hesitate, not sure why I feel reluctant to explain. But Mikhail’s gaze is unrelenting, and the words spill out before I can stop them. “Randall. He’s my school principal. There’s this big educational conference happening in New York, and I’m supposed to be there to help run things. Except he dumped most of the responsibilities on me last minute, so now it’s my problem if anything goes wrong.”

Mikhail leans back in his seat, his expression unreadable. “Skip it.”

I blink at him, certain I misheard. “What?”

“Skip it,” he repeats, his tone firm. “Why go through the trouble? Let him handle it himself.”

“That’s outrageous,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a responsibility,” I argue, my voice rising slightly.

“Are you one of the organizers?” he asks, his brow arching.

“No,” I admit reluctantly. “But Randall set me up to deal with it all.”

“Exactly,” he says, his smirk returning. “Then you can miss it. Would teach him not to speak to you like that.”

I gape at him, unable to believe what I’m hearing. “You can’t just…skip something like this because someone was rude to you.”

“Why not?” he counters, his tone calm but unyielding. “You’re not obligated to tolerate disrespect.”

His words throw me off-balance, and I don’t know how to respond. The idea of defying Randall, of walking away from a responsibility—even one unfairly dumped on me—feels so foreign. But at the same time, there’s something liberating about it.

“I can’t,” I say finally, though the conviction in my voice wavers. “I just…can’t.”

Mikhail studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Suit yourself, kiska. But remember—respect is earned, not owed.”

Those words stay with me, echoing in the quiet moments as the car speeds down the highway. Respect is earned, not owed. It’s such a simple idea, yet it cuts through the years of me bending over backward for people like Randall, people who take and take because they know I won’t say no. Could I really skip the conference? No, I tell myself. I’d never hear the end of it. But still, the thought lingers, tugging at something buried deep inside me.

My stomach growls, loud enough to cut through my thoughts, and I flush, clutching my midsection. I haven’t eaten since the plane, and the anxiety hasn’t exactly helped.

“Uh…any chance we can stop for food?” I ask hesitantly. “I’m starving.”

He glances up, his expression unreadable for a moment before nodding. “Torres,” he says, his tone sharp and decisive.

The beefy guy from earlier, who’s been riding up front in silence like some kind of stoic sentinel, glances at Mikhail in the rearview mirror. “You sure, boss?”

“It’s fine,” Mikhail replies smoothly. “Find somewhere convenient.”

A few minutes later, we pull into a Burger King parking lot, and I can’t help but feel a little awkward as Torres gives Mikhail a pointed look.

Mikhail shrugs, unbothered. “She’s hungry.”

The car rolls to a stop, and I step out, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. The smell of fries and grilled burgers wafts through the air, and my stomach growls again. Mikhail follows me inside, his presence immediately drawing attention. A few customers glance his way, their gazes lingering. I can’t blame them—he’s not exactly the usual Burger King crowd. The tailored suit, the air of authority, the way he carries himself like he owns the ground he walks on…yeah, he’s definitely out of place.

We step up to the counter, and I glance at him. “What do you want?”

“You choose,” he says, his gray eyes steady on mine.

“Seriously?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have a preference?”

“It’s my first time,” he says casually, like he’s just mentioned the weather.

I blink at him. “No shit.”

He smirks, his lips twitching slightly. “No shit.”

Shaking my head, I turn to the cashier and order a couple of meals—one with a Whopper for him, and a cheeseburger meal for me.

We sit at a booth near the window, the trays of food between us. Mikhail picks up the Whopper, inspecting it like it’s some rare artifact before taking a bite. I watch as his expression flickers, and then he nods.

“Not bad,” he says.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Welcome to the world of fast food, Mr. First Class.”

He arches an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “I assume you’re a seasoned expert?”

“You could say that,” I reply, taking a sip of my soda. “Growing up, we didn’t have much. My mom would take me to places like this because it was cheap, and we could make it work. Burgers, fries, milkshakes…it was our version of fine dining.”

Mikhail sets his burger down, his gaze sharpening. “You didn’t have much?”

I nod, picking at my fries. “My parents had just split, and things were…tight. Really tight. My mom did her best, but there were times we barely scraped by.”

He leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Why did they split?”

I hesitate, the old wounds still tender despite the years. “Let’s just say my dad wasn’t the best at being a husband. My mom left, and we had to start over. It wasn’t easy, but we managed.”

Mikhail doesn’t press, but there’s something in his eyes, a flicker of understanding that catches me off guard.

“Your mother sounds strong,” he says finally, his voice softer than I’ve heard it.

“She is,” I say, smiling faintly. “She had to be.”

He’s finished half of his Whopper, eating it with the same deliberate precision he seems to apply to everything.

“What?” he asks, catching me staring.

I shake my head, laughing softly. “Nothing. It’s just funny seeing you here.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Funny how?”

“You look like the kind of guy who has a private chef,” I reply, taking a sip of my soda. “Not someone who eats Whoppers at roadside Burger Kings.”

His lips twitch into that infuriating smirk of his. “I told you, it’s my first time.”

“Right,” I say, leaning forward. “And how’s the grand introduction to fast food?”

He picks up a fry, inspects it closely, and then eats it. “Surprisingly good.”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“Tell me more about you,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “Why teaching? Why children?”

I hesitate, the directness of his attention making me squirm. He makes it impossible to deflect, his eyes pinning me in place like I’m the only person in the room. “I’ve always liked kids,” I say finally. “They’re honest in a way adults aren’t, you know? And they’re still learning about the world. I wanted to do something that mattered, even if it’s just in a small way.”

Mikhail nods, his expression thoughtful. “It’s an important job. One most people wouldn’t take on.”

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. I pick at my fries, needing a distraction. “What about Torres?” I ask, nodding toward the car parked outside. “Doesn’t he want to eat?”

Mikhail leans back slightly, his smirk returning. “Torres likes his space. He’ll eat when we’re back on the road.”

“He really isn’t your bodyguard, is he?”

“Not officially,” Mikhail answers.

“Hmm,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re good at dodging questions, you know that?”

“I only dodge the ones I don’t feel like answering,” he counters smoothly, his gray eyes glinting with amusement.

I laugh softly, but his words stick with me.

I watch him through my lashes. Mikhail seems to realize it and looks up. “Do I have something on my face?” he asks.

“You’re older than I thought,” I blurt out, because no man in his twenties has that level of presence, that confidence that demands the whole damn room. And no man in his twenties looks like he walked out of a Brioni ad with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that could strip you down to nothing.

He chuckles, not looking the least offended. “How old would you say I am?”

I chew before answering. “Is that a trick question?”

He laughs again, and for some reason I feel really good about that. Mikhail doesn’t seem like a person who laughs a lot.

We eat in relative silence after that, though I catch him watching me occasionally, his gaze lingering like he’s trying to decipher me as much as I’m trying to figure him out.

When we finish, I gather the trash and start to stand, but Mikhail is faster. He takes the tray from me without a word, depositing it in the bin by the door as we head back to where Torres is waiting.

The car hums to life, and we’re back on the road. The quiet settles in again, but it’s not uncomfortable. I’m lost in my own thoughts, staring out at the passing landscape, when my phone buzzes loudly in my lap.

I glance at the screen, groaning when Randall’s name flashes across it.

Mikhail’s gaze flicks to me, curious, but he says nothing.

I decline the call and turn toward him. “Mind if I tag along just a little while longer?” I ask, surprising even myself with the words.

His eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, I see something like curiosity in his expression. “You’re not going to the conference anymore?”

“I guess I just…changed my mind,” I say.