Page 467 of Black Reign

SIX YEARS LATER

Our son is hacking his father's computer.

Again.

I stand in the doorway of Xavier's study holding a cup of tea and watch five-year-old Pierre Blackwell attack a keyboard with the intensity of a man attempting to prevent nuclear war.

Clack-clack-clack.

Pause.

Mouse.

Clack-clack-clack-clack.

His dark head tilts.

Tiny brows draw together.

Then he mutters something in Italian that would be adorable if the tone didn't sound exactly like Xavier criticizing a junior programmer.

I look toward my husband.

Xavier sits on the sofa reading something on a tablet as though our kindergartner is not currently commandeering one of the most sophisticated private workstations in Europe.

“Are you seeing this?”

“Yes.”

“Your son is in your system.”

“He has limited access.”

I stare.

“Limited?”

“He thinks it's unlimited.”

“That seems unnecessarily deceptive.”

“It motivates him.”

Pierre makes a frustrated sound.

Xavier doesn't even look up.

“Your variable is wrong.”

Pierre spins in the enormous desk chair.

“Non è sbagliata.”

His Italian is flawless.

Naturally.

Xavier finally lifts his eyes.