“This is… excessive,” I breathe, unable to help myself.
“It’s functional.”
“For what? Feeding an army?”
“Sometimes.” He moves toward the massive island, resting his hand on the sleek surface. “When necessary.”
Alya is already seated at the island, her tablet propped up beside her, eyes focused on what looks like math problems. She doesn’t look up when we enter, but I can tell from the slight stiffening of her shoulders that she knows we’re here.
“Papa,” she says, finally glancing up. Her eyes move to me, then back to him. “Do we have to sit together?”
“Yes,” Konstantin answers, his voice gentler than I’ve heard it before. “You know she’s staying,myshka.”
Alya considers this information like she’s calculating risk factors. “Will she be here for breakfast, too?”
“Yes.”
“And dinner tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
She taps her pencil against the tablet. “For how long?”
Konstantin and I exchange a glance. It’s the first time we’ve looked at each other without hostility since I arrived, and something electric passes between us.
“For now,” he says finally, “she stays.”
Alya nods once, decision made. “Then she should know about Mondays.”
“What’s special about Mondays?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Alya looks at me like I’ve asked what’s special about oxygen. “Monday is pizza night. Papa makes it himself. No chefs allowed.”
I blink, trying to reconcile the image of the dangerous man beside me—the one with violence etched into his skin and power wrapped around him like armor—with someone who makes homemade pizza for his daughter.
“You cook?” I ask, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.
Konstantin’s mouth curves into something dangerously close to a real smile.
“I contain multitudes.”
“And tomato sauce, apparently,” I say.
This time, the sound that escapes him might actually be a laugh—short and rusty, like it’s been locked away too long.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the stool beside Alya. “Watch. Learn.”
As I slide onto the stool, I catch Alya studying me again, her small face serious. But this time, there’s something else there, too. Not warmth, exactly. But not pure hostility, either.
“I hope you like mushrooms,” she says. “Papa puts them on everything.”
“I do,” I answer honestly. “But I draw the line at pineapple.”
Alya’s eyes widen fractionally, and she leans forward. “Me too! Papa says fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.”
“Smart man.”
“The smartest,” she agrees with absolute conviction.
