“Oh, so now we’re democratic?” I ask, reaching for one and tossing it on the counter.
“Pizza is sacred,” he replies without missing a beat.
And there it is again—that dry, low humor that sneaks out when he’s not posturing for the world. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. But it lands. It landshard.
The kids scatter across the island, grabbing toppings, arranging chaos. It’s loud, slightly unhinged, and surprisingly normal.
Lev’s cutting olives like he’s prepping for a mission. Nikolai is arranging mushrooms in perfect symmetry, the way some people lay out battle maps. And Alya—God bless her—is smashing a handful of basil straight into the center of her dough like she’s punishing it.
“Okay, basil assault is a choice,” I say, laughing.
“I like the smell,” she mumbles.
I glance at her and freeze. There’s flour on her cheeks now—smeared across her nose and left temple like war paint—but her expression has softened. Her edges have dulled.
She looks like a kid. Not a diplomat. Not a timekeeper. Just a flour-dusted, pizza-making 8-year-old who wants to overcheese the world.
“Come on,” I say gently, nodding toward the hallway. “Let’s go wash your face before you become a human cannoli.”
She huffs but follows me.
We pass through the side corridor and into one of the guest bathrooms—because of course this house has a marble-clad powder room with gold fixtures and a candle that probably was purchased without a thought for expense.
I dampen a washcloth and crouch in front of her.
“You have something right—here,” I say, dabbing gently at her cheek.
She flinches. Just slightly. Like the contact surprised her.
I don’t push it. Just keep wiping the flour away in slow, careful movements. Her eyes stay locked on mine the whole time, as if she’s studying me for weakness.
“You know,” I say softly, “you don’t have to be the adult all the time.”
“I’m not.”
“You kind of are.”
She shrugs. “Somebody has to be.”
The weight of that sentence sits in my chest like a brick. I know that feeling. Too well.
“You don’t,” I tell her. “Not with me.”
She blinks. For a second, she doesn’t say anything.
“I used to get in trouble for messes like this,” I say, keeping my voice light. “My mom was… big on clean.”
Alya tilts her head. “Did she yell?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But mostly, she just sighed. Like everything I did made her tired.” I pause, then add quietly, “She died when I was 16. Car accident. I never got to say goodbye.”
It slips out more easily than I expect. Maybe because her eyes don’t look away. Maybe because no one’s asked in a long time.
A beat passes.
Then—
“Do you think about your mommy a lot?”
