“Does anyone else know this house is here or is it a secret?”
“Where’s that drink again?”
“I’m terrible at this game. Can I try something different?”
“Are you married?”
“Where did Sophia’s mother go? Is she dead?”
“How old are you?”
“How old is your boss?”
“How old is Sophia?”
“How old do you think I am? Should I tell you? No, go ahead, guess.”
And finally, “Hasn’t it been like an hour, already?”
“That’s twenty. You can stop now.”
“Well, thank goodness.” I click out of the app and before I can search the phone for more interesting features, Yuri plucks it from my hands. “No phones allowed.”
“Why not?” I reach for it but all he has to do is hold his arm up and I’ve no chance. “The doc said there was a blocker, so it’s not like I can use it to activate the bat signal.”
“No phones allowed.”
Since I’m no longer bound by the need to fit tiny shapes into tiny holes, I search the floor for my abandoned glass and pour another finger into it, raising a challenging eyebrow at the guard all the while.
He frowns but doesn’t intervene and I take my seat again. “You know, you need to work on your conversation skills.”
“He’s here for your protection, not your entertainment,” a dry voice says from the doorway, and I look over to see Balabanov standing there, Sophia holding his hand. She glances up at her dad for permission and, when he nods, she flies across the room to throw herself into my lap.
“Hey, kid. You doing okay?”
“Daddy said you’d read me a bedtime story.”
“Oh, Daddy said that, did he?” I glance over to ‘daddy’ with my eyebrows raised and he nods. “You know, I’m not great at bedtime stories. Wouldn’t you prefer your father read to you instead?”
A smirk crosses Yuri’s face. Finally, an expression, but not the one I was after.
“Or Yuri?” I say with a tinge of malice.
“No. I want you.” She wriggles on my lap, turning around and sliding down to the floor before grabbing my hand. “Come on. If you hurry, you can read me two.”
From the sound of it, she thinks that’s an advantage, but it doesn’t seem that way to me. My experience with children is zero and I don’t think experimenting with the progeny of a gangster is any way to start.
“You promised me dinner,” I remind Balabanov, who’s staring at me with a peaceful smile. “Not to put me to work as a nanny.”
He shrugs, coming over to take Sophia’s other hand. “Don’t pull at her, Munchkin,” he says with a mock growl, making her squeal. “Just ask her nicely.”
“Would. You. Read. Me. A. Story. Pleeeeeeeeeease?”
Fine. I give up. “Sure,” I say, letting her drag me towards the door, her father trailing by a step. “What story are we reading?”
CHAPTERSIX
BAXTER
