7. Chapter 7

7

Clara

“ S it.”

I look up at Dmitry. And up. And up.

“ Please .” I stare straight into his eyes before throwing a wink at Elijah.

My son—bless his tiny dictator heart—nods firmly. “You need to say please if you want something from someone. It’s polite.”

A vein pulses in Dmitry’s neck. His jaw works like he’s chewing glass.

“Please.” The word comes out rough, like he’s been chain-smoking for days.

Elijah beams, clearly satisfied with himself. “Good job,” he says, patting Dmitry’s arm as if he’s just trained the biggest man in the room.

I hold his stare.

I pull out the chair. I sit.

My choice. Not his.

Dmitry grunts. His huge hands hover over Elijah’s chair, adjusting it with the kind of care you’d use handling explosives. My son scrambles up, and Dmitry steadies him with a gentleness that makes my brain short-circuit.

I exhale. Slowly. The fact that he’s not torturing us is a relief.

The giant shuffles toward what I assume is another kitchen behind those swinging doors. Because one massive kitchen isn’t enough in a house like this.

I snicker quietly, glancing around.

This kitchen is something else.

It stretches out like an HGTV fever dream. White marble everywhere. Steel appliances that belong in a restaurant. Floor-to-ceiling windows framing a garden that would make Martha Stewart weep.

It took us a minute to get here—lift up from the TV room, past a couple of heavy doors, down a hallway that just kept going. This house is too big for its own good, but somehow everything feels bare.

Cold.

Like Leonid had enough money to fill it with furniture, but decided to keep things as minimal as possible.

Elijah’s humming now, fork in hand, tapping it against the edge of his plate like it’s a drumstick. His legs swing happily under the table.

“Mommy, this place is nicer than our kitchen.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yes, baby, it is.”

Movement catches my eye. Two guards patrol the garden, guns visible on their hips. I scan the corners of the ceiling. One, two, three—yep, cameras. Because of course there are cameras.

Left alone in an unlocked kitchen? Sure. They’re watching us from somewhere, probably betting on what we’ll try first.

“Mommy, Mommy.” Elijah tugs gently on my neck, his small arm pulling me closer until I have to hunch down a bit so he can whisper into my ear. His breath tickles as he presses his face to mine. “Are they bad guys?”

For a second, a sharp sting hits my chest. He’s too young for this. Too innocent to be stuck in a world where bad guys surround us. I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

“Yes,” I admit quietly, bracing myself for the fear I expect to see in his eyes. Instead, Elijah leans in closer, his tiny hand still holding onto my neck for balance. He whispers with all the confidence in the world, “Don’t worry, we’ll train them to be good guys again, like Ash does.”

I blink, and then a chuckle slips out. God, I love this kid. He’s completely unfazed, convinced that with enough determination, he can flip an entire mafia operation like he’s turning Pikachu into a superhero.

Just then, Dmitry pushes the door open and steps through. A wave of garlic and butter hits us, and suddenly, I’m starving.

Elijah’s whole body perks up like a meerkat. “Smells so good!” His little butt lifts off the chair, nose in the air.

“Food’s coming.” Dmitry materializes beside us, two glasses in his hands. He puts one in front of Elijah, then places the other in front of me.

He stalks to the fridge, back muscles rippling under his black shirt like steel cables. Returns with a glass jar of orange juice that looks tiny in his grip.

He fills one glass, movements precise like he’s handling nitroglycerin instead of Tropicana.

Elijah’s eyes go from the juice to Dmitry, then to me.

Dmitry stands there, eyes flitting between the two of us.

I nod, aiming at Elijah. “Yes, you can drink it.”

“YEAH! Orange juice!” Elijah bounces in his seat. “Thank you! See? You’re getting better at being nice already!”

The corner of Dmitry’s mouth twitches. Something shifts in his face. The hard lines soften, just a fraction, as he watches my son demolish his orange juice. It’s the same look I’ve seen on guard dogs when they find a kitten to protect.

Unsettling. That’s what this is.

The door swings open. I expect one of Leonid’s plastic-perfect bots. Like the ones from The Aerie that night I slipped poison into his whiskey. All bedroom eyes and dead smiles.

Instead, Kayla bustles through with a tray that makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud.

“My God, this smells incredible!” I say it out too loud.

Kayla beams, but her eyes keep drifting to Elijah. Just as quickly as I catch it, she’s already looking away.

“Lunch is ready,” she says as she drops the tray in front of us.

Oh. My. God.

Grilled cheese, but not like any I’ve made. Golden-brown sourdough, some fancy cheese melting out the sides, and what looks like caramelized onions peeking through. A bowl of tomato soup that’s definitely never seen the inside of a Campbell’s can sits beside it.

Kayla stands to the side, her eyes moving to Elijah again. She’s staring at him like she’s trying to solve a puzzle, her expression awkward, maybe even a little nervous.

My stomach growls again, but my throat tightens. Rich people poison, right? That’s a thing. Especially rich people whose whiskey you’ve tried to spike.

Elijah looks up at me, sandwich already halfway to his mouth. Those big eyes full of trust.

I press my lips together. Take a breath.

A chair scrapes. Dmitry materializes across from us—how does someone that huge move so quietly?—and digs into his sandwich like he’s got three minutes to live.

Right. If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead. No need for fancy cheese poison.

I nod at Elijah.

He takes one bite, and his whole face lights up. “Mommy! This is the best food ever!”

His right. I take a bite.

The food is… fuck. It’s good. Too good. The cheese is sharp and nutty, the bread perfectly crispy, and there’s some kind of herb situation happening that makes me want to cry.

I’m only halfway through when Dmitry’s plate is suddenly empty. How did he even—did he unhinge his jaw like a snake?

His phone buzzes.

“Maksim.” His voice goes flat.

Dmitry’s eyes flit to mine, and for a split second, I feel something ominous, something more than just hostility.

What the fuck? It’s heavy, dark, something to do with me.

I keep chewing, but every muscle in my body tightens, waiting for what he’ll say next. I shove more food into my mouth, pretending I don’t feel the weight of whatever the hell is happening.

“Okay, I’ll be ready.” He stands, chair scraping against marble.

The look he gives Elijah before turning away makes my blood run cold.

Not like a guard dog finding a kitten.

Like a guard dog who’s just been ordered to hunt.