“Konstantin,” she says, turning to me as she takes her seat across from Bella. “Your staff requires better training.”
“Oleg,” I address my head of household, who stands at attention near the wall. “Who is this?”
“Anya Petrova, sir,” Oleg responds, his baritone voice betraying nothing. “Began yesterday. She’s under training now.”
“Clearly not enough training,” my mother sniffs.
Bella glances at me, something uncertain flickering across her face. Seeking permission or perhaps reassurance. I offer neither, curious what she’ll do without it.
She sets her shoulders—that small, defiant movement I’m beginning to recognize—and smiles at my mother.
But my mother turns abruptly toward Alya.
“And how are your advanced mathematics classes coming along?” my mother asks, completely ignoring Bella’s presence. “Professor Kuznetsov mentioned you were ahead of schedule.”
“We’re working on differential equations now,” Alya replies, sitting straighter. “He says I could be ready for calculus by next month.”
Bella’s eyes widen slightly. She looks from my 8-year-old daughter to me with disbelief.
“Calculus?” she whispers under her breath. “At 8?”
I merely incline my head. My children are exceptional. It’s expected.
“And your tactical assessment scores?” my mother continues, putting a slice of pizza on Alya’s plate smoothly.
“Ninety-three percent,” Alya reports. “But Lev still beat me on the obstacle course.”
“Only because I’m taller,” Lev interjects, mouth half-full.
Bella looks increasingly bewildered. “Tactical… assessment?”
“Survival training,” Nikolai explains quietly. “Field strategy, defensive maneuvers, weapon recognition.”
“For children,” Bella says flatly.
“For heirs,” I correct, my voice low enough that only she can hear.
Bella stares at me for a moment, then takes a very large sip of her wine.
My mother finally turns her attention to my new wife, as if just remembering her presence.
“Isabella Marquez,” my mother says, testing the name like she’s tasting wine she expects to be vinegar. “That’s Hispanic, isn’t it?”
And there it is. The first move in a game Bella doesn’t know she’s playing.
“Yes,” Bella answers. “My grandfather came from Mexico. My father was half-Mexican, half-Irish. My mother was Italian.”
“Was?” my mother presses, reaching for her wine.
Bella’s fingers still against the tablecloth. “She passed when I was 16.”
“How unfortunate,” my mother says, without a hint of actual sympathy. “And what did your grandfather do in Mexico before… immigrating?”
The pause before “immigrating” is deliberate, laden with implication.
Lev stabs a piece of pizza onto his plate. “Can we eat now? I’m starving.”
“Patience, Lev,” I say quietly. “Serve your grandmother first.”
