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Savage.

“Yes,” I say. “Technically.”

She waits.

I sigh. “I went to school for something else.”

“What?” she asks.

“Finance.”

She nods as though this is an entirely reasonable answer.

“What do finance people do?” she asks.

“Mostly spreadsheets and pretending they understand the economy,” I say.

She smiles.

I like her.

That’s inconvenient because I generally try not to become emotionally invested in strangers before finishing my afternoon coffee.

I glance around, as children stream through the front doors behind us. Parents wait near the curb. Teachers in navy blazers supervise the pickup line. And then I see someone who stands out—but just a little.

A tall man wearing a dark suit stands beside a black SUV twenty or thirty feet away. He’s looking in our direction while speaking into his phone.

I notice the earpiece tucked discreetly behind one ear.

Security. Of course.

I gesture toward him. “Is that your dad?”

The little girl follows my gaze. “No,” she says.

“Brother?” I ask.

She looks mildly offended. “No.”

“Very serious uncle?” I ask.

She giggles. “That’s Kirill,” she says. “He works for Papa.”

Naturally.

“What does he do?” I ask.

“He watches me,” she says.

“That sounds ominous when you say it like that,” I say.

She shrugs. “He’s my guard.”

I look at Kirill again.

He’s big. Not gym-influencer big. Useful big. The kind of big that suggests moving furniture or disposing of bodies could both occur without requiring assistance.

He catches me looking. His expression doesn’t change.