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Maxim was quiet for less than a second.

“The fundraiser proceeds.”

CHAPTER 16

Alessia

Sergei kept his hand over mine until the armored SUV turned onto his street.

Then he released me with the same care he used when setting down a loaded weapon, and by the time we stepped through the townhouse door, every visible trace of the man who had nearly jumped a federal interview table was gone. His shoulders were straight. His breathing was even. He checked the security panel, verified the rear cameras, and spoke briefly to the guards outside before we went inside.

Sergei crossed into the kitchen without turning on any music or asking whether I was hungry. He washed his hands, rolled the sleeves of his black shirt to his forearms, and began taking ingredients from the pantry with determined focus. Flour. Salt. Eggs. Onions. Ground pork and beef. Black pepper. Sour cream from the refrigerator.

I leaned against the counter and watched him place everything in a straight line.

“What are you doing?”

“Making pelmeni.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

It was barely four in the afternoon. We had eaten nothing since breakfast, spent half the day inside a federal detention facility, and just learned that the murder of his parents had been arranged like a shipping contract by a man who believed not choosing the bomb made him less responsible for the deaths it caused.

Apparently, this was an excellent time for cooking.

“Is this a Russian coping mechanism?” I asked.

“One of them.”

He took a large ceramic bowl from the cabinet, added flour, then stopped with the measuring cup held above it. For several seconds, he stared down as though the exact amount had left his mind.

That was new.

Sergei measured everything.

He noticed when a rug shifted half an inch. He knew how long every guard took to cross the rear lane and exactly how many steps separated the guest room from the hidden exit. He probably knew the weight of every knife in the kitchen and would notice if I exchanged two identical forks in the drawer, but he returned the measuring cup to the counter without using it and poured the flour directly from the container.

I pushed away from the island. “You didn’t measure.”

“Mama didn’t.”

The word softened his expression before discipline took over again.

“How do you know how much to use?”

“The dough tells you.”

“The dough talks?” I asked, staring at him.

“When it is right.”

“And you’re certain you aren’t hallucinating from emotional repression?”

His mouth moved at one corner, just barely.

I watched him make a well in the flour and crack two eggs into the center. His hands were too large for the delicate work, but he moved with practiced confidence, drawing the flour inward a little at a time and adding water until the mixture began to form beneath his fingers.