“I used to think pizza night meant frozen crust and a hotline to Domino’s,” I mumble.
Lev grins. “What’s Domino’s?”
And now I’m the fossil.
“Never mind. Keep slicing, assassin child.”
And then I realize—Oh, no.
I probably shouldn’t have said that.
Not because I offended anyone. But becauseall three kids just froze.
Alya lowers her tablet like she’s slowly recalibrating. Lev stops mid-slice. Nikolai raises one eyebrow, which, for him, is basically a full-body reaction.
Shit.This is it. I’ve officially blown it. Called the mafia boss’s son an assassin. While his father is, quite literally, three inches from my elbow and capable of making people disappear without Google Maps ever noticing.
I open my mouth to backpedal—maybe throw in a compliment, or a pizza pun, or fake a seizure—but before I can even start the damage control…
They all start laughing.
Like—reallylaughing.
Alya snorts.Snorts.Lev’s giggling so hard he almost drops his terrifying knife, and Nikolai actually leans on the counter like his legs gave out.
And I just stand there, holding a block of mozzarella like it’s the Holy Grail and I’ve been granted entry to some secret inner circle I didn’t know I was trying to get into.
“Assassin child,” Lev repeats between wheezes. “That’s so much better than what Papa calls me.”
“Whatdoeshe call you?” I ask, still frozen, still half-convinced this is a setup.
“Reckless,” Nikolai says.
“Uncontained liability,” Alya adds helpfully.
Konstantin clears his throat like he’s considering both murder and fatherhood at the same time.
I glance at him, expecting to see annoyance—or worse, judgment.
But he’s not looking at them. He’s looking atme.
And for a split second, there’s something in his expression I haven’t seen before. Not irritation. Not amusement.
Pride.
Like hemeantfor me to find my footing here. Like maybe this was the test all along.
Lev’s still giggling when Alya reaches for a ball of dough and declares, “I’m doing toppings. Papa always lets me do toppings.”
“Because you overcheese everything,” Nikolai mutters, still leaning on the counter like the laugh took ten years off his spine.
“That’s not a thing,” she replies. “There’s no such thing as overcheese.”
“She’s not wrong,” I say, sliding the mozzarella toward her. “Also, as someone with a lactose addiction, I feel seen.”
Alya offers the tiniest smile. Barely a twitch of her mouth. But it’s there. It counts.
Konstantin gestures toward the tray with the crusts. “Everyone gets one. No arguing.”
