This is what I do. I state facts. I identify problems. I eliminate threats.
People don't want facts. They want someone to stand by their side, to share the weight of their pain without trying to carry it for them.
I'm not capable of that.
Never have been.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Igor with an update on Rogers, probably. Information I can use. A problem I can actually solve.
But I don't reach for it.
Instead, I watch my siblings comfort each other and try to find another way. A different way. Because offering comfort with words isn't something I can give, but I can givesomething.
"Natalia."
She looks up, eyes red-rimmed.
"The stables." I clear my throat. "Father's mare had a foal last month. You haven't seen it yet."
Her brow furrows. "You want me to look at a horse? Now?"
"I want you to get out of this room." I gesture at the journals scattered across the coffee table. "Away from all of this. Fresh air. The foal is a filly. Chestnut with a white star on her forehead."
Karolina's eyes meet mine over Natalia's head. Understanding flickers there.
"Actually," Karolina says, "that sounds perfect. We could all use some air."
Natalia hesitates. "I don't know..."
"She's not named yet," I add. "Father wanted you to choose."
That's a lie. Father never said any such thing. But it's the right lie.
Natalia's expression shifts. Something like hope breaks through the grief.
"Really?"
"Really."
She stands, setting the journal aside. "Okay. Let's see this filly."
We file out of the library, through the kitchen where the borscht still simmers, out the back door toward the stables.
I hang back, letting the others walk ahead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vittoria
The knock on my door comes at eight in the morning. On a Saturday.
I groan into my pillow, contemplating murder. Whoever's interrupting my one day to sleep in better have an excellent reason or a death wish.
"Vittoria." Pietro's voice cuts through the wood. "We need to talk."
Fantastic.
I drag myself out of bed.
