“We need privacy,” he announced. “It’s the least we deserve after you stole us.”
Something warm and unbearably painful cracked in my chest.
No one—no guard, no boss, no council member—had spoken to me like that in fifteen years.
“I have questions for you, Mr Dmitri,” he continued, folding his small hands on the table like he’d seen this done in movies.
Mr Dmitri.
He could’ve stabbed me with a knife and it would’ve hurt less.
I dragged a breath in. “How old are you, Vanya?”
He lifted one shoulder. “You answer my questions, I answer yours. Respect goes both ways.”
God.
He was five.
A short, rough laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
He was me.
He was exactly me.
“Fine,” I said, leaning forward, elbows braced on my knees. “Ask.”
He studied me with those storm-grey eyes, as if scanning for weaknesses.
“What do you do for work?”
Straight into the artery.
The kid was surgical.
I took him in fully then: the dark curls, the stubborn mouth, the sharp gaze that missed nothing.
A five-year-old with the moral compass of a judge and the instincts of a predator.
He deserved honesty.
But he also deserved to sleep at night.
“I keep people safe,” I answered slowly. “Sometimes that means doing things most grown-ups couldn’t handle.”
He absorbed the words, expression unreadable.
Then he leaned forward, whispering like we were planning a heist.
“Like poisoning the pretty lady at the wedding?”
My spine snapped straight.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Where did you hear that?”
He rolled his eyes like the universe constantly disappointed him. “I’m five, not deaf.”
I stared at him.
