"Mamochkawould love those carriages too," Sasha calls out from across the gallery. "She always said she wanted to ride in one." I wince at the words because he's so loud, but he doesn't understand etiquette yet.
And he keeps mentioning his mother, bringing her up like she's still alive somewhere waiting for him to come home, and I don't know what to say to any of it. The very idea that I'll have to eventually help him move on past this feels like a harder task than hunting down a man in state's protection. What do you say to a ten-year-old who's grieving?
Sasha takes off toward the sword displays at the far end of the gallery, and I watch every step his squeaky sneakers take. This kid has gotten under my skin faster than I ever thought possible. Just a few weeks ago, I was alone in this world, and now I have a son. It's mind boggling.
He stops in front of a case full of ancient blades and immediately starts trying to climb over the velvet rope to get a closer look. I've tried to keep my calm this entire time, but this time, it's not just fingerprints on glass. He's breaking rules and he needs some discipline.
"Sasha!" I shout, and my voice bounces off the walls loud enough to make the guard look up. "Get down from there and don't touch anything."
He freezes with one leg over the rope, and his eyes go wide in fright. I know I sound harsh, but this is what fathers do, right? But Noemi gives me a scowl and Sasha scrambles back to the right side with his cheeks going red. The guard takes a step toward us, and I hold up my hand to let him know everything's fine.
"You didn't have to yell at him," Noemi hisses, all that earlier warmth gone in an instant. "He's a kid looking at swords, not a soldier you're ordering around."
"Those things are older than this entire building and that case could tip over on him. What do you want me to do, let him get himself killed?"
"Then you walk over and explain that quietly. You don't shout across the room and embarrass him in front of everyone."
I can't stop the anger that rises quickly in my throat, and I clench my jaw to keep from saying something I'll regret. I thought Noemi and I were finally making progress toward a good working relationship, but every time I think we're moving forward, she finds a new way to remind me that I'm doing this wrong and that I don't know how to be what Sasha needs or what she wants me to be.
"You don't get to tell me how to handle my son." I start in his direction, and she quickly falls into step next to me with hasty strides that have her feet slapping the floor.
"Someone has to, because you clearly don't have a clue."
"And you do? You've known him a few weeks—I'm his father."
"Then act like it." Her eyes flash hot with anger. "Real fathers don't scare their kids into behaving. Real fathers talk to them and treat them with respect and help them understand the consequences to life's decisions." Now her eyes flash with rage and protectiveness, which is endearing, but she's saying things on purpose to hurt me.
I've spent my whole life teaching myself not to be moved by what people say, but somehow, she has this ability to shoot right through my armor. I want to tell her that I never had a real father and I turned out fine, but I shove the anger down into the cold place where I keep everything else and make my voice come out flat.
"Stay with Sasha by the swords. I need to take a walk before I say something we'll both regret."
"Fyodor—"
"Stay with him."
I turn and walk away before she can argue, making people look up from their exhibit guides as I breeze past them. I'm so angry, I can feel the physical tension in my chest muscles and an ache from trying to make myself remain calm. How on earth I let her get under my skin so easily is beyond me. I'm doing my best here and I know I’m failing. But if she took half the compassionshe has for that boy and helped me instead of lecturing me, we'd progress much faster.
But I don't have time to sit and think about it or sulk. I have a meeting to keep.
The gallery with the crowns and coronation robes is almost empty when I get there, and I spot Rurik right away, standing by a display case with his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn't look at me when I walk up. His gaze stays fixed on the embroidered fabric locked behind the thick glass.
"You're late," he grumbles. We've done business before and I know that tone. He's annoyed.
"I had to get away from my companions."
"The woman and the boy." If there's one thing Rurik is good at, it's surveillance. He has eyes and ears everywhere. He probably knew my entire situation within an hour of my checking into that hotel. "Risky, bringing them here."
"I didn't have a choice, and I didn't come here to talk about my personal life." My frustration seeps out in my tone, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat and finally turns to face me.
"I have what you need…" he says, slipping me an envelope. "The addresses have been checked out. No word on who's inside, but intel is good that your target is in one of them."
"How fresh is the information?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder. I told Noemi to stay put, but I can't risk that she'll move and see me here against my orders.
"Fresh enough." He holds out his hand, palm up. "But nothing comes free."
I reach into my coat and pull out the envelope thick with bills and hand it over. Rurik takes it without counting and slides it into his pocket in one smooth motion.
"The first one is your better bet," he says, passing me a folded piece of paper. "Sources say the police presence is limited. I think they think he's safer here away from Gravitch territory."
