She doesn’t knock. Just uses a key from her pocket, pushes the door open, and calls out, “Mrs. Hardinoff? It’s Ayla.”
“In the kitchen, dear!”
The voice is warm, grandmotherly. The kind of voice that makes you think of cookies and safety.
Ayla moves through the house like she knows it by heart. Living room. Hallway. Kitchen in the back.
Mrs. Hardinoff stands at the stove, stirring something that smells like chicken soup. She’s small, white-haired, wearing an apron covered in flour.
She looks up when we enter. Her eyes land on me. Then widen.
“Oh my,” she breathes.
Ayla steps between us immediately. “Mrs. Hardinoff, this is—”
“Maksim Korsakov.” The old woman sets down her spoon. “I know who he is.”
Of course she does. Everyone in this city knows who I am.
“I’m sorry,” Ayla says quickly. “He insisted on coming. I tried to—”
“It’s fine, dear.” Mrs. Hardinoff waves a hand. “The more the merrier.”
Ayla looks confused.
I’m not.
I recognize the way this woman carries herself. The way she doesn’t flinch when she looks at me. The way her eyes assess, calculate, remember.
She’s not civilian.
“You were Bratva,” I say.
Mrs. Hardinoff smiles. “A long time ago. When your grandfather ran things.”
Ayla’s head whips toward her. “What?”
“My late husband,” the old woman explains. “He was a soldier. Low rank. We had no children so we were allowed to leave when things got...complicated.”
“Ah, you were there for that,” I nod.
She smiles kindly.
Ayla’s still staring at her like she’s seeing a ghost. “You never told me.”
“You never asked.” Mrs. Hardinoff turns back to the stove. “Besides, that life is behind me. I’m just an old woman now who needs help keeping her house clean.”
Bullshit.
I can see the knife tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Hidden by the apron, but there.
Old habits.
“Ayla,” Mrs. Hardinoff says, stirring the soup. “Why don’t you start upstairs? The bathroom needs scrubbing.”
Ayla hesitates, glancing between us.
“Go,” I say.
