Emma’s voice cuts in. “Can I help?” She’s dripping all over the patio, leaning dangerously close to Boris’s keyboard.
Boris stares at her like she’s a new species of bug. “No.”
She pouts. “But I’m good at games.”
Lev snorts. “Let her code the cameras, Boris. Might get us in faster.”
Boris mutters something in Russian that makes Dima smirk.
Ray clears his throat. “Feds are already circling Brightside. Financial Crimes Division’s had them on the board for months, but Caleb’s too clean on paper. They need something live.” He takes a slow drink from the can, eyes still on his kids like he’s just giving us the weather report. “I can put the right ears in the room on Friday. CIA liaison, couple Bureau boys. They’ll be watching Timofey and your banker friend without knowing they’re watching Mary.”
A splash interrupts him—Emma is climbing out of the pool, shouting at her brother for hogging the floatie. Ray doesn’t miss a beat, raising his voice without turning his head.
“Share or I’m shutting the pool down.”
The kids groan in unison.
He lowers his voice again, back to us. “You intercept the move on her. My contacts get the proof. Caleb’s name lands on a federal desk Monday morning.”
Dima nods once. No wasted words. Lev drums his fingers on the table like he’s already bored.
Emma reappears at Boris’s side, dripping again. “Do you have stickers on your computer?”
“No.”
“You should.”
Boris looks at her, deadpan. “Why?”
She shrugs. “Because it’s boring.”
Lev bursts out laughing, loud enough that the dog barks again.
And somehow, in the middle of all this—watermelon juice, wet footprints, kids screaming—I’m planning how to gut Timofey without getting blood on the carpet.
Emma abandons Boris after deciding he’s hopeless, and pads across the patio straight for me. Her little feet slap against the stone, leaving a trail of water. She stops in front of my chair, head tipped back, eyes squinting at the ink on my hand.
“What does that say?” She presses a wet finger against the letters on my knuckles, trying to sound them out like she’s reading a bedtime book. The word comes out mangled, but she’s proud of herself anyway.
My hand stiffens. Nobody touches me without bleeding for it. Except her.
She climbs half onto my lap before I can stop her, swimsuit dripping cold through my shirt. Little hands grab at me like I’m a jungle gym.
Across the table, Ray lifts his beer, smirking like the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You wear that look better than you think, Malikov.”
Lev chokes on his watermelon, laughing. “Oh, Father of the Year.”
I glare, but the words hit somewhere I don’t like. Somewhere that makes me think of Mary—her hands, her eyes, that stubborn mouth. A picture I have no business letting in.
I shift Emma back onto her own feet, gently, because she doesn’t understand who I am.
“Not for you,malyshka,” I murmur.
She pouts but gets distracted the second her brother yells from the pool, midair in a wild cannonball. The splash soaks the patio, sprays our feet.
Ray leans back, still grinning. “Don’t let him break his neck. I’ve gotta take Emma in before she floods the lawn. Pee-pee emergency.”
