Page 15 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Mikhail has been at Kathryn’s preschool since he was two and a half. He started in the toddler room and moved up to Pre-K there, and somewhere along the way, our arrangement became routine. She teaches him during the day, keeps him after school until I can get across town, feeds him snacks, lets him draw on printer paper, and sends me texts when he refuses to nap because he’s “thinking about trucks”.

Tonight, dinner is ten minutes from being done, which counts as ambition on a weeknight. Turkey meatballs, tomato sauce, and enough grated cheese to earn one of his big, sticky smiles.

Patrick says he needs five.

He says it the way he says everything, with one hand already on the doorframe and the answer decided before I open my mouth.

Five minutes, from Patrick, is never five minutes. It’s my brother standing in my doorway after I’ve worked all day, picked up my son, cooked dinner, and tried to gather my life into something that belongs to me.

“You always need five minutes,” I say, blocking the door with my hip. “It becomes an hour, then I’m fixing something you should’ve paid a consultant to fix.”

He lifts a flash drive. “A client portal locked me out after a certificate update. I sent you the credentials. You click around, get it unstuck, and I’ll be gone before the prince notices I exist.”

By prince, he means Mikhail. Patrick knows I don’t like him talking to my son.

Patrick leans past me. “Hey, Mik. You driving that thing or parking badly?”

Mikhail looks up from the rug, where six toy cars sit in a crooked traffic jam. His hair sticks up from his bath, and his pajama shirt is inside out because he insisted the dinosaur needed to face him. His blue eyes brighten the second he sees Patrick, full of the open, careless happiness only children give before they learn who deserves it.

“I’m racing,” he says.

“Poorly,” Patrick says and steps inside before I can say come in.

I close the door, lock it, and slide the chain into place. Patrick notices. Patrick notices everything that doesn’t belong to him.

“Still doing the fortress act?” he asks.

“Still asking questions you don’t need answered?”

He drops onto the couch and picks up Mikhail’s red car. “Your mom worries about you.” He says it to me, with his eyes on my locks.

I yank the towel off my shoulder and throw it into the washer. “Mom worries because you call her and make my life sound tragic.”

“Family checks in,” he says. “You act offended when I care.”

“Family checks in. You strong-arm me into free tech support, eat my food, and report my tone to our mother.”

His smile barely moves. I hate that he can still do this. Walk in. Sit down. Touch my son’s toys. Say Mom like it’s a leash. The fastest way to get him out is to give him what he wants, so I sit at the table and plug his flash drive into the isolated adapter I keep for Patrick-shaped disasters.

Patrick leans over the back of the couch and frowns at the setup. “Jesus, Cara. You think I’m carrying state secrets?”

“I think you’re carrying something stupid.” Patrick may not be a spy, but he’s absolutely the kind of man who brings malware in his pocket and calls it “a small issue.”

“You got mean after motherhood.” He lifts himself from the couch and sits cross-legged on the floor beside Mikhail.

“I got busy. There’s a difference.” I hurry, urging my hands to finish the job he came for.

Mikhail scoots closer to Patrick and pushes a blue car into his hand. “This one wins.” I’m almost done. My fingers fly on the keyboard.

Patrick studies him longer than I like. His thumb rolls the wheels back and forth as he says, “He’s got those eyes.”

He’d said this before, usually with that same little tilt to his voice, testing whether I’d flinch. He always got the same answer. “What eyes?” I keep my voice controlled.

“Blue. Big. Serious.” He tilts his head. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Fuck off, Patrick.”

Mikhail looks between us. “Mama said a bad word.”