Page 102 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“My name is Elena,” she says, kneeling far enough away that Mikhail doesn’t have to step back. “You must be Mikhail.”

Mikhail looks at the baby first. “That baby is small.”

Elena smiles. “Very.”

“Does he cry on airplanes?” Mikhail asks, leaning against Cara.

“He hasn’t been on one yet,” Elena says.

Mikhail looks relieved for him. “Good.”

Elena shifts the baby against her shoulder. “We have pancakes inside. Right now, if you want them.”

At once, Mikhail turns to Cara. “Are pancakes safe?”

Cara kisses his temple. “Yes. I promise.”

Mikhail nods. “Then I want pancakes.”

That exchange tells me more than any file could. Mikhail trusts Cara completely. Everyone else starts with nothing.

We move into the small sitting area beside the north-wing nursery. Mrs. Wentworth has made it look ready for a tired child with a low table, small chairs, a pitcher of water, warm plates, storybooks, paper, and crayons.

Mikhail waits until Cara sits on the rug, then sits beside her. Kathryn takes the chair behind him and keeps one hand near his back.

I sit across from them with space between us. Five minutes later, I put a wheel in the wrong place, and Mikhail stares at me.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he says, pushing the wheel toward me.

Kathryn covers her mouth with her napkin.

Cara folds her legs on the rug, picks up a small blue car, and lines it beside Mikhail’s red one.

I look at the wheel, then at my son.

“Show me,” I say, setting the piece down between us.

Mikhail sighs like I have made his life very hard, then leans over and points.

“You said you knew how to build race cars.”

Behind me, Sergei makes the mistake of laughing.

Mikhail looks at him, offended for me. “He’s learning.”

I bend over the toy car while my son explains the rules, and no one stops him from correcting me.

23

CARA

There’s been no announcement.

By mid-morning, the estate has started acting like Mikhail owns shares in it. I notice it in the small things.

Guards stand farther from the north-wing corridor. Staff talk in lower voices near the nursery sitting area. Meal trays arrive on a schedule that makes sense to a child, instead of a Mafia empire. Someone has put a small step stool near the washbasin. Someone else has removed the glass bowl from the side table and replaced it with a wooden box full of crayons.

Everyone has already put it together that there’s a child here.