"Different park," I say firmly. "Prospect Park. They have a carousel."
"And ice cream?" Mila's grin is pure manipulation, and she knows it.
"Maybe." I flip the pancake onto her plate, perfectly golden. "If you eat your breakfast first."
She attacks the pancakes with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn't inherited her mother's neurotic food issues. Izzy watches her with a softness in her eyes that makes my jaw tighten.
This isn't real. She's here for her inheritance. I'm here to keep Mila.
Prospect Park is crowdedwith weekend families. Kids shrieking on the playground, couples sprawled on blankets, the smell of grilled meat from the vendors near the lake. Normal. Safe. The kind of Saturday I've been trying to build for Mila since the divorce.
She bolts for the swings, and I follow at a measured pace, one hand instinctively checking for the Glock tucked against my spine. Old habits. Izzy walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush with each step, and I'm cataloguing every point of contact without meaning to.
"She's watching me," Izzy murmurs. "Mila. She's been watching me all morning, like she's trying to figure out if I'm real."
"She's smart. Takes after me." I catch Mila on the swing, giving her a push that sends her soaring. Her laughter cuts through the park noise, pure and unguarded. "She knows something's different, but she can't name it yet."
"Should I be worried?"
"About an eight-year-old?" I glance down at her, catching the genuine concern in her expression. "She's testing you. Seeing if you'll stay, or if you're another temporary thing in her father's life."
Izzy's quiet for a beat. "What should I do?"
"Show up." I push Mila again, timing it perfectly. "That's all she wants. Consistency. Someone who doesn't disappear."
"I can do that."
"Can you?" The words come out harsh. "This arrangement has an expiration date, Isabelle. Eventually, she'll have to learn you're leaving."
"Higher, Papa!" Mila's demand saves her from answering.
We spend two hours at the park. Mila drags Izzy to the carousel, insisting she ride the purple horse beside her pink one. I watch from the sidelines, leaning against a fence post, cataloguing every moment: Izzy's genuine smile as the carousel spins. The way she holds Mila's hand when they dismount. How naturally she tucks a loose strand of hair behind my daughter's ear.
She's good at this. Too good.
"Ice cream now?" Mila appears in front of me, breathless and flushed. Izzy trails behind, equally flushed, and I notice the way her silk blouse clings to her curves, damp with exertion.
"Deal's a deal." I straighten, already scanning the vendor area. "But you share with Izzy."
"Why?" Mila's face scrunches in confusion.
"Because sharing is?—"
"Because I'm going to steal half of it anyway," Izzy interrupts, grinning. "Might as well make it official."
Mila considers this, then nods solemnly. "Okay, but I pick the flavor."
They walk ahead toward the ice cream cart, Mila's hand somehow finding Izzy's, and tension knots in my chest watching them. Two dark-haired figures, one small and one graceful, moving through the crowd, like they've done this a hundred times before.
This is dangerous.
Not the Bratva. Not Matthew Ashford or Elena's custody threats. This. The way my daughter looks at Izzy with hope. The way Izzy looks back with tenderness she's not faking.
When they return, Mila's got chocolate smeared across her face, and Izzy's laughing, licking vanilla off her thumb. The sight makes heat coil low in my gut, and I force myself to look away before I do something stupid, like kiss her in front of my daughter.
Bedtime arrives too fast.Mila's had her bath, changed into pajamas covered in stars, and she's bouncing on her bed when I bring her the stack of books she insists on reading every night.
"Can Izzy read them?" she asks, and I see the test for what it is.
