Kayla chuckles softly, her hands steady as she stands at the counter, slicing more fruit with practiced precision. “SeñorDmitry is quite the influence on him.”
“Oh, he’s a role model,” I say dryly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Next, he’ll be telling him to skip naps because ‘real men don’t need rest.’”
Elijah giggles, kicking his legs. “Uncle Bear said I can beat anyone if I eat spaghetti every day!”
“Did he?” I raise an eyebrow, leaning closer. “Well, did he also tell you that spaghetti turns little boys into silly noodles?”
“No, it doesn’t!” Elijah protests, laughing so hard that his fork clatters onto the plate.
“REEE-yaaah!”
“REEE-yaaah!”
I jump so hard that the plate in my hand jolts, sending a splash of marinara onto my dress. Right on my left tit.
“For f—uuuudge sake, Pavel!” I hiss, grabbing a napkin to dab at the stain.
The peacock freezes mid-strut, turning his head slowly to level me with the kind of side-eye that belongs to ex-boyfriends who “accidentally” show up at your favorite café. His feathers shimmer as he straightens, his beady eyes practically screaming, “How dare you?”
“Mommy said theFword!” Elijah sings, giggling through a mouthful of pasta. Red sauce now decorates his Burberry pants like an abstract art project.
Great. Hopefully, someone’s stocked more clothes for him.
“No, baby, Mommy saidfudge. Fudge starts with F.” I shoot Kayla a sheepish glance as her eyebrow arches slightly. “Because Pavel is being a little sh—” Her brow lifts higher, and I course-correct mid-word. “—show-off.”
Elijah laughs harder, his tiny legs kicking under the table as more sauce makes its way from plate to pants. “Pavel’s silly! Like a dancing chicken!”
“Elijah,” I say, crouching slightly to meet his eye level. My tone is firmer now, though I soften it with a smile. “Sit still, buddy. We don’t kick the table, and we definitely don’t eat pasta like it’s a mud fight, okay?”
His giggles slow, and he blinks at me, tilting his head like he’s deciding whether to listen. “But I’m eating!” he protests, waving his fork in the air like a tiny conductor leading an orchestra of spaghetti.
“Yes, and you can eat without wearing half the plate.” I pluck the fork from his sticky fingers and demonstrate. “See? Scoop, twirl, and—bam—clean bite. Now you try.”
He frowns, grabbing the fork back and mimicking my movements with exaggerated precision. It’s awkward but effective—mostly. A single noodle dangles from his lips like a comedic mustache, but at least it’s progress.
“Good job,” I say, ruffling his curls as he grins proudly. “Now, keep practicing.”
“REEE-yaaah!” Pavel’s piercing call draws all our attention back to the garden. He flicks his tail, clearly feeling himself, and pauses by the fountain to admire his reflection. Then, as if on cue, he starts flexing—stretching his wings out like he’s auditioning for a bird fitness ad.
This is what rock bottom looks like—watching a peacock practice self-love while my revenge plot crumbles.
The silk of my dress twists in my grip. Stephan’s probably at the office right now, running what’s left of our operation, while Dad drowns in his fancy whiskey. What would Stephan say if he knew? That Leonid—the man we’ve been gunning for, the reason he’s been keeping our family’s empire from crumbling—didn’t kill Jake, after all.
I exhale sharply.
Even Mitch confirmed it.
Fourteen years of vendetta. Fourteen years of Stephan picking up Dad’s pieces, training me to take over while Dad talked to Jake’s ghost in his study.
All that hate. All that planning. Wrong target.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board jolts me back to reality, snapping me out of my own mind.
“You’re a good mom,Señorita Clara,” Kayla says. She doesn’t look up from her slicing, but the words catch me off guard.
I glance at her, and my laugh comes out too quick, too forced. “Yeah, well… thanks.” I shrug like it’s no big deal.
