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Lilah glances at my brother, then at me. She understands the retreat I’m offering and allows it.

For now.

She takes another bite.

Only then do I release her hand.

I watch her throughout the meal. She’s happy, eating freely, chatting with everyone within conversational distance.

The meal goes long. It’s a house full of Russians who live to one-up each other and bust each other’s balls.

And to drink, of course.

Vodka and wine get poured, and the little ones consume enough sparkling grape juice to render an elephant comatose.

And gradually, effortlessly, my family closes around Delilah Dorsey.

Between his third and fourth plates, Niko keeps sneaking glances at my hand resting on Lilah’s thigh. “We should establish a rule,” he announces as the liquor starts to affect him. “Poppy-seed rolls at every Makov gathering from now until death.”

“And honey cake!” Yuri declares.

Anton holds out a finger. “Cookies, too.”

Niko looks at Lilah. “Do you take standing orders?”

She looks delighted despite herself, although maybe a bit overwhelmed by all the attention. “The bakery accepts most legal forms of payment. And, for a small extra fee, some illegal ones, too.”

“That’s our baker,” someone declares confidently.

Someone else takes it up in agreement, and then another, and another, until everyone at the table has agreed that yes, Delilah is our baker, and not one living soul who calls themselves a member of the Makov Bratva will ever patronize another bakery or sweet shop ever again.

Our baker.

My father used to say that for all the people he owned. Our driver. Our maid. Our cook. He reduced a person to what they could do for him, and then, when their usefulness ended, he tossed them aside.

The men and women at my table mean the opposite. They claim responsibility. If Lilah is ours, then her enemies become ours. Her safety becomes ours. Her victories give everyone in this room a reason to celebrate.

She can’t hear the difference yet.

But she will.

Dessert is done and the plates are stacked and I’ve had exactly enough vodka to be dangerous when Lilah stands up and says the last of the pirozhki she brought have to be cooked.

“There’s a mountain of food left,” I tell her. “We’ll be fine without.”

“The dough’s already proofed,” she replies. “If I don’t cook it tonight, it goes in the trash, and I did not carry a tub of dough the size of a toddler across two boroughs to throw it away.”

Two of the men offer to help her.

I tell them no. Not harshly. I just say their names and shake my head, and they very quickly find somewhere else to be.

“I’ll join,” I say instead.

I follow her into the warm kitchen.

Lilah pulls an apron off the hook and ties it over her dress, then dumps flour onto the counter and pulls the dough out of the tub.

She turns the dough out. Presses the heels of her hands into it.