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“Yes.”

“With whom?”

The question comes too quickly.

My pulse stutters, but I keep my face neutral.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are my son.”

I hate that the answer softens something in me.

“I’m going alone,” I say. “I just need to clear my head in another environment for sometime.”

His gaze hardens.

“No.”

I blink. “No?”

“You will take two guards.”

I let out a laugh before I can stop myself.

“Absolutely not.”

“Maksim.”

“I’m going on vacation, not entering a war zone.”

“You are a Petrov. The distinction is not as clear as you think.”

“I’m going to Greece,” I say, emphasizing the lie as if repetition will make it safer. “To sit by the beach and drink things with umbrellas in them. I do not need Mikhel and Julio standing three feet behind me while I try to enjoy my life.”

“They will not stand three feet behind you.”

“Four, then. Still horrifying.”

His eyes narrow. “You think this is a game.”

“I think you treat every trip I take like an assassination attempt.”

“Because people have tried to use you against this family before.”

The words cut through my sarcasm.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. My father doesn’t often say things like that. He doesn’t like to bring up the past at all. But since he realized I’ve been getting the memories of that day back, little by little, he’s been more than overprotective of me.

I soften my voice despite myself. “I’ll be careful.”

“That is not enough.”

“It has to be.”