Page 103 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

I have spent my whole life reading systems. Back home, Patrick was the son meant to take charge. He was the boy everyone praised until he learned to live on applause. My mother said girls were raised for care, manners, and obedience. Boys were raised to decide. My father called that protection whenever it suited him and obedience whenever I pushed back.

Early on, I learned Patrick wasn’t strong. He was crafty. He figured out what people wanted, then acted like he was the only one who could give it to them. That’s why I hated Dmitri the moment he called control protection.

It’s also why I watch him now. Dmitri learns. Worse, he wants to.

Before eight, he has a list.

Nobody writes it on paper or sends it through the house, but I can see it moving from person to person. Food, guards, sleep, medical support, Kathryn’s access, my access, Mikhail’s toys. Mikhail’s fear of unfamiliar people. Mikhail’s need to check my face before he agrees to anything.

Dmitri launches a full operation around pancakes, cereal, fruit cut into small pieces, and a side investigation into American breakfasts.

Near the corridor arch, I catch Abramov studying a printed note with three underlined words.

Oatmeal. Pancakes. Lucky Charms?

When he sees me looking, he folds it.

“Lucky Charms?” I ask.

Abramov clears his throat. “Research,” he says, tucking the paper inside his jacket.

“Into cereal?” I ask, folding my arms.

“Into American breakfast habits,” Abramov says, looking past me like the wall might save him.

Dmitri appears behind him with a tablet in one hand. “Children eat it,” he says, watching my face.

“Children eat crayons sometimes,” I say, lifting my eyebrows. “That doesn’t make them breakfast.”

Dmitri looks down at the tablet. “There’s also something called Irish breakfast.”

I stare at him. “He’s four.”

Dmitri scrolls once. “Eggs, sausage, beans, toast, and tomato.”

“Stop.” I look between him and Abramov because I honestly don’t know which one of them needs scolding more. “You’re making this weird.”

Abramov looks down at the floor.

“He’s four,” I say.

Dmitri’s gaze drops for half a second, then comes back guarded. “He ate only two bites of pancake after a long flight,” he says, lowering the tablet. “That’s not enough.”

“It’s enough after an international flight and being dragged across the world by strangers,” I say, and my voice comes out hard.

Across from me, Abramov decides the breakfast emergency can live without him. “I’ll update the list,” he says, stepping back.

In the evening, Dmitri gives me another report. We’re in the corridor outside the nursery when he says, “He slept badly and woke three times.”

He means Mikhail. He fell asleep after refusing lunch. Jet lag caught up with him.

My shoulders tighten. “I know.”

Dmitri’s mouth pulls at one corner. “Once for Kathryn. Once for you. Once for the car.”

“I know,” I say again, because I woke with Mikhail’s fingers twisted in my sleeve and Kathryn half asleep on the edge of the bed, ready to fight the furniture if it moved wrong.

Dmitri looks toward the nursery sitting area. “I was nearby.”