She launches into an elaborate explanation of her artwork. It looks like a garden scene. The garden has every flower she can think of because flowers make people happy. She points out the two stick figures—a tall one and a shorter one with long black hair.
I’m going to assume that’s her and possibly Dante.
And because I’m shameless and I need to know exactly what I’m getting into, I have to ask. It’s a question I should have asked Dante before I ever slept with him.
"Where's your mama?" I ask gently.
The little girl offers a small smile. "Mama is in heaven. She went there when I was little."
The simple way she says it breaks my heart. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Papa says she watches over us from there." She brightens again with the resilience only children possess. "Do you want to draw with me?"
I glance over my shoulder and see Dante watching us. The cold, controlled mask slips, replaced by something so tender it makes my chest ache.
"Milaya," he says, and even though I don't speak Russian, the endearment is clear in his tone. "What are you drawing?"
"The garden I want. You said we could make a big garden."
Mila jumps up and throws herself at Dante with the complete trust only a beloved child can show. He catches her easily, lifting her into his arms like she weighs nothing. The transformation is complete. This isn't the dangerous man who threatened myfather and held me prisoner. This is just a dad, completely devoted to his little girl.
“The landscaper will meet with us next week,” he tells her. “You can tell him all your garden dreams.”
“I want lots of flowers!”
"Very good." He sets her down gently. "Why don't you finish your masterpiece while I talk with Hannah in the garden?"
Mila returns to her art, already absorbed again in her creative world. Dante gestures toward French doors that lead outside. I follow him onto a stone terrace that overlooks gardens that belong in a fairy tale.
"You didn't tell me you had a daughter," I say once we're out of earshot.
"You didn't ask."
"That's not exactly the kind of thing that comes up in casual conversation." We walk a little farther away. "She's beautiful."
"She's everything." The simple honesty in his voice is devastating. "Her mother died when she was two. A rival family decided to send a message."
The implication hits me like a physical blow. "They killed her mother?"
"Car bomb. Meant for me, but Katya was driving my car that day." His jaw tightens. "Mila was at home with the nanny. If she'd been in that car..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. Whatever else Dante might be, he's a father who lost the mother of his child to violence.
We walk through the grounds and around an herb garden that suggests someone tends to this place with love. It's hard to reconcile this peaceful sanctuary with the violent world Dante inhabits.
“You’ll be able to move freely around the compound,” he says. His voice is hard with no emotion. “There are guards everywhere. Don’t try to run. Behave yourself and I won’t lock you in a room.”
I scowl at him. “Gee, thanks.”
“I have a meeting. Do not talk to my daughter about anything. Is that clear?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not a monster. Unlike her father.”
He says nothing as we start the walk back into the house.
When we step inside, I hear male voices, speaking in rapid Russian echo across the foyer.
