23. Cara
CARA
There’s been no announcement.
By mid-morning, the estate has started acting like Mikhail owns shares in it. I notice it in the small things.
Guards stand farther from the north-wing corridor.
Staff talk in lower voices near the nursery sitting area.
Meal trays arrive on a schedule that makes sense to a child, instead of a Mafia empire.
Someone has put a small step stool near the washbasin.
Someone else has removed the glass bowl from the side table and replaced it with a wooden box full of crayons.
Everyone has already put it together that there’s a child here.
I have spent my whole life reading systems. Back home, Patrick was the son meant to take charge.
He was the boy everyone praised until he learned to live on applause.
My mother said girls were raised for care, manners, and obedience.
Boys were raised to decide. My father called that protection whenever it suited him and obedience whenever I pushed back.
Early on, I learned Patrick wasn’t strong. He was crafty. He figured out what people wanted, then acted like he was the only one who could give it to them. That’s why I hated Dmitri the moment he called control protection.
It’s also why I watch him now. Dmitri learns. Worse, he wants to.
Before eight, he has a list.
Nobody writes it on paper or sends it through the house, but I can see it moving from person to person. Food, guards, sleep, medical support, Kathryn’s access, my access, Mikhail’s toys. Mikhail’s fear of unfamiliar people. Mikhail’s need to check my face before he agrees to anything.
Dmitri launches a full operation around pancakes, cereal, fruit cut into small pieces, and a side investigation into American breakfasts.
Near the corridor arch, I catch Abramov studying a printed note with three underlined words.
Oatmeal. Pancakes. Lucky Charms?
When he sees me looking, he folds it.
“Lucky Charms?” I ask.
Abramov clears his throat. “Research,” he says, tucking the paper inside his jacket.
“Into cereal?” I ask, folding my arms.
“Into American breakfast habits,” Abramov says, looking past me like the wall might save him.
Dmitri appears behind him with a tablet in one hand. “Children eat it,” he says, watching my face.
“Children eat crayons sometimes,” I say, lifting my eyebrows. “That doesn’t make them breakfast.”
Dmitri looks down at the tablet. “There’s also something called Irish breakfast.”
I stare at him. “He’s four.”
Dmitri scrolls once. “Eggs, sausage, beans, toast, and tomato.”
“Stop.” I look between him and Abramov because I honestly don’t know which one of them needs scolding more. “You’re making this weird.”
Abramov looks down at the floor.
“He’s four,” I say.
Dmitri’s gaze drops for half a second, then comes back guarded. “He ate only two bites of pancake after a long flight,” he says, lowering the tablet. “That’s not enough.”
“It’s enough after an international flight and being dragged across the world by strangers,” I say, and my voice comes out hard.
Across from me, Abramov decides the breakfast emergency can live without him. “I’ll update the list,” he says, stepping back.
In the evening, Dmitri gives me another report. We’re in the corridor outside the nursery when he says, “He slept badly and woke three times.”
He means Mikhail. He fell asleep after refusing lunch. Jet lag caught up with him.
My shoulders tighten. “I know.”
Dmitri’s mouth pulls at one corner. “Once for Kathryn. Once for you. Once for the car.”
“I know,” I say again, because I woke with Mikhail’s fingers twisted in my sleeve and Kathryn half asleep on the edge of the bed, ready to fight the furniture if it moved wrong.
Dmitri looks toward the nursery sitting area. “I was nearby.”
“Yes,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “I noticed.”
For a moment, he waits. Waiting is worse when he does it like this, because then I have to be fair.
“You didn’t come in,” I say, dropping my hand.
Dmitri adjusts the tablet in his grip. “He didn’t ask for me.”
Something in my chest twists before I can stop it. Mikhail calls from the nursery sitting area, and I walk away because staying there would make me think about Dmitri doing the right thing.
The nursery sitting area has become Mikhail’s base camp.
Elena sits with him at the low table, her baby asleep in a basket beside her chair. She wears a soft gray sweater and no jewelry except her wedding ring.
Mikhail has turned the table into a repair shop with toy tools, cardboard boxes, tape, and a row of screws Mrs. Wentworth must have inspected twenty times before allowing them within reach. Two cars sit upside down in front of him, and one small chair has a strip of tape across the leg.
“No,” Mikhail says, picking up a toy wrench. “This chair is broken in the fast part.”
Elena leans closer. “Chairs have fast parts?”
“This one does,” Mikhail says, very serious. “It’s a race chair.”
Kathryn sits on the rug with a coffee cup in both hands. She hasn’t brushed her hair, and her eyes are red from too little sleep.
“Can I steal you for five minutes?” Kathryn asks, looking up at me.
Elena lifts the baby basket handle with one hand. “I can watch the repair shop,” she says, then looks at Mikhail. “If the boss allows it.”
Mikhail studies her with deep suspicion. “Don’t touch it.”
Elena places her palm over her heart. “I will never.”
I take Kathryn into the small library off the north-wing corridor. Warm green walls, two deep chairs, plants in the corners, and a rounded window facing the inner courtyard make the place feel almost gentle.
Kathryn shuts the door and covers her mouth.
When I reach for her, she grabs my wrist. “Tell me how much Evan knew.”
“Kath,” I say, guiding her into the settee. “You didn’t hand him anything.”
Tears fill her eyes. “He knew the clinic. The pickup schedule. The scraggy planter by the side gate because I made one stupid joke over takeout.”
“Small things,” I say, crouching in front of her. “That’s what Patrick uses. Gossip. Bar chat.”
Kathryn presses both hands to her face. “I thought I was just talking.”
“You were,” I say. “Evan heard normal things from someone he was dating, and Patrick pulled them out of him because that’s what Patrick does.”
Her face goes pale. “What is Patrick doing?”
I take her hands. “He put my name in the Blacklist. He used me to pay a debt, then ran. That’s why I’m here.”
Kathryn goes completely still. “What the hell is the Blacklist?”
“It’s how they collect debts,” I say. “Money, secrets, territory, people.”
Her face loses color. “And Patrick put you in it?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?” A shiver moves through her.
“It means Patrick ran, and I became the thing men came to collect.”
Kathryn’s fingers tighten around mine. “And Mikhail?”
“They found a way to reach him through you,” I say. “He became valuable.”
For a while, neither of us speaks.
Then Kathryn folds over my hands and starts crying. I sit with her on the rug because the chair suddenly feels ridiculous, and we hold on like we’re back in Boston after a bad date, except this time, the bad date brought armed men and an international crime family.
Kathryn wipes her cheek with her sleeve. “Dmitri.”
I look at the window.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” she asks. “Mikhail’s father.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought knowing less kept you safer.”
Kathryn shakes her head, hurt all over her face.
“I was wrong,” I say.
Her eyes fill again. “Now it all makes sense.”
The door opens before I can answer.
Dmitri stands there with one hand on the frame, and his gaze moves from Kathryn’s face to mine.
Kathryn gets up so fast, the chair scrapes back. “Good. You. I have words.”
Dmitri steps inside. “Say them.”
Kathryn points at him. “Cara is not a bad mother because she hid Mikhail from you.”
My throat closes.
Dmitri looks at me once, then back at her. “You’re right.”
That stops her for half a second.
Recovering fast, Kathryn steps closer. “I’m not done.”
Dmitri nods. “Continue.”
“Four years don’t disappear because you have guards, pancakes, and a toy car kit,” she says. “If you hurt either of them, I’ll become a problem.”
Something close to respect enters his face. “You already are.”
Kathryn narrows her eyes. “Was that a threat?”
“No,” Dmitri says. “A fact.”
I don’t stop them.
Kathryn studies him for one long second. “You’re very strange.”
Dmitri looks toward the hallway. “Mikhail is asking where pancakes come from.”
I blink. “What?”
“He rejected Mrs. Wentworth’s answer,” Dmitri says, and for once, he looks slightly outmatched. “Then Elena’s.”
Kathryn wipes her cheeks with both hands and heads for the door. “Finally, an emergency I understand.”
Inside the sitting area, Mikhail stands beside the low table with a pancake on his plate and three adults failing him.
Elena rocks her baby with one foot. “Pancakes come from batter.”
Mikhail frowns. “Where does batter come from?”
Mrs. Wentworth folds her hands at her waist. “Flour, eggs, milk, and a bit of patience.”
“Patience is not food,” Mikhail says.
Lidiya turns away, pressing her lips together.
Near the kitchenette entrance, Dmitri watches like he’s taking the question seriously.
Kathryn drops onto the rug beside Mikhail. “Pancakes come from people who love you and own frying pans.”
Mikhail considers this.
I sit on the chair arm. “Good answer.”
Mikhail points his fork at Dmitri. “What do you think?”
Dmitri straightens. “Pancakes come from a controlled mixture applied to heat until the surface sets.”
Everyone goes silent.
Kathryn drops her head into one hand.
Elena looks at the ceiling.
Mikhail says, “No.”
Dmitri lowers the tablet. “No?”
“No,” Mikhail says, stabbing the pancake. “That’s not a pancake story.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Dmitri turns toward me like I might translate.
“You have to do better than controlled mixture,” I say.
Ten minutes later, I find him in the kitchenette with his sleeves rolled up and a mixing bowl in front of him. “You don’t have to cook,” I say.
Dmitri glances at the batter. “He asked for a pancake story.”
“You could read one.”
“I looked,” he says, picking up a whisk. “Most are nonsense.”
“Children like nonsense.”
Dmitri pours batter into a pan. The shape spreads into something with five arms and a torn side.
I lean against the counter. “That’s not a circle.”
“It was when it started.” He gives me a look. Very unfair to the pancake, apparently.
“Sure,” I say. “That matters.”
Smoke lifts from one edge.
I reach for the spatula. “You’re burning it.”
Dmitri moves at the same time, and our hands touch on the handle. Both of us stop. The pan hisses between us.
Dmitri lets go first. “Show me.”
His voice comes out rough. I slide the spatula under the pancake and flip it. Dmitri looks at my mouth. My eyes drop to his mouth, then to the sharp line of his jaw. The pan hisses between us.
“It has character,” I say, and my voice is not as steady as I want it to be.
“It’s ruined,” he says.
Mikhail appears at the entrance with his red car in one hand. “Is it done?”
I lift the pancake onto a plate and force myself to breathe. “It’s bad.”
Mikhail climbs onto the step stool and studies it. “It looks like a race track.”
Dmitri looks at him. “It does?”
Mikhail nods, serious as a judge. “This part is the turn. This part is where blue crashes.”
Dmitri takes that in. “Then it’s useful.”
Mikhail tears off a small piece and eats it. “It’s good.”
For one ridiculous second, I believe we might survive breakfast.
Then Abramov appears at the doorway, phone in hand.
His eyes go to Dmitri first.
“Patrick’s surfaced.”