Page 200 of Merciless Daddy

I bought them.

Then she chose a painted wooden bird from a toy stall. Its wings were red and gold, its tiny body carved with more care than the price deserved.

“For Kiryl,” she said.

“He will like it.”

“He will pretend he is too old for it.”

“He is too old for it. About ten years too old.”

“I don’t know. He’s sunburned and peeling potatoes. He needs a bird. Every adult needs a bird.”

So I bought it for him.

The blue bowl came last.

She held it in both hands, looking down at its white painted waves.

“For what?” I asked.

Her mouth pressed into a line.

“My future kitchen,” she said. “Maybe . . . our future kitchen?”

I said nothing. I only took the bowl from her carefully after she paid for it herself.

She handed me the wrapped package.

“Would you carry this?”

“Of course, Little one.”

Her eyes met mine.

“Thank you for asking.”

The words were small, but the moment felt very, very big.

We ate beneath a faded blue awning overlooking the harbor.

The table was small. Our knees touched beneath it whenever either of us moved. Grilled fish, warm bread, sliced papaya, sharp citrus, cold water sweating in glasses.

Yelena had put on the silver earrings. They flashed when she turned her head.

“Have you given much thought to what you will do with your mother’s companies?” I asked.

She looked at me over her glass.

“When Gianni is gone?”

“Exactly.”

Her expression became serious.

“I’ll keep them. Manage them.”

“I assumed you might.”