Katarina.
My dead wife. The woman who made her way into my bed and my bloodline, who got pregnant deliberately to secure her position in the Bratva.
She smiled at me every morning while building a cage I didn’t notice until the door was already locked.
She died in childbirth. A sudden complication, the doctors said. Unavoidable, a cruel lottery of biology. I’ve never been fully convinced. Cruelty, in my experience, is rarely random.
Karma, perhaps.
She left me two things: a daughter I would die for and a conviction that anyone who gets close to me is running an angle. Every smile is a strategy. Every kindness is a transaction. Every woman who crosses my path sees the crown first.
I’ve been right every time. In seven years, not a single person has given me reason to believe otherwise.
The car stops. Dimitri stays put while I go inside.
The foyer is quiet, as usual. I take the stairs to the residential floor.
Anya’s door is open — she never closes it. When a child her age keeps the door closed, it means she fears what’s outside.But my daughter has learned from me that she has nothing to fear. Protection is not her job. It’s mine.
I stop in the doorway before she can see that I’m home, and I watch her.
These moments are too precious to pass up.
She’s built a fortress.
I can make out an elaborate construction of pillows, bed cushions, two small chairs dragged from the reading corner, and what appears to be the good tablecloth from the formal dining room, which Angelina is going to have feelings about.
Mr. Whiskers stands in front, guarding the entrance.
Anya is inside, cross-legged, her sketchbook open on her lap, colored pencils arranged beside her.
I lean against the doorframe and watch this small, extraordinary creature who rearranges the world to suit her.
As if sensing my presence, she raises her head.
“Papa!” she says, mouth curling into a smile. “Come, look what I built!”
I mirror her smile, the only time I ever do it naturally, and cross the room to lower myself to the floor beside her fortress.
“Can I see?” I point to her drawing.
She angles the sketchbook toward me without hesitation. Today’s subject is a cat who appears to be wearing armor. And a cape.
“The cat has a cape,” I note.
“He’s a knight. He protects the kingdom.”
“What kingdom?”
She gestures broadly at the pillow fort. At Mr. Whiskers. At herself. The meaning is clear:This kingdom. Obviously.
“And what does the kingdom need protecting from?”
“Dragons.” She picks up the green pencil and adds what might be flames, or trees, emerging from the left side of the page. “And boring people.”
The chuckle escapes before I can catch it. She glances up at the sound, a flash of satisfaction crossing her face.
“You used the good tablecloth,” I point out.
