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We step into the garden, its lush greenery a welcome relief after the stifling atmosphere in the conference room. I’m grateful for Mikhail’s steadying presence. He takes my hand and I lean into him, willing away my worries.
The fragrant blooms brush against us as we walk down the cobblestone path. The sun is bright in the sky as birds alight on branches above us.
Mikhail stops to pick a beautiful daisy from the ground beside us. He twirls it between his fingers and smiles at me, something of his usual sparkle returning to his eyes.
“At least now they have a face to the shooter and will find him,” he says, tucking it behind my ear with gentle precision.
I simply smile, and nod.
“You know,” he whispers softly, pulling me close, “we’ll get through this together.”
And I nod silently against his chest and whisper, “We will.”
We keep walking for a while and then I ask, “I wonder, does my father know?”
Mikhail frowns. “I’m not sure he does. But I believe Ivan would have communicated this with him.”
I sigh, and look away.
“What is it, my love?” Mikhail asks.
“It’s just that, I miss him sometimes.”
“Your father?” He frowns.
“He’s not the easiest man, but he is my father,” I retort sharply, hoping to cover my lie with human sentiment.
“Of course.” He bends his head gently, then lifts it back in a small bow. “I never meant to question your bond. Would you like to go see him today?”
My heart lurches in my chest in excitement. Good. This is just the direction I wanted this to go.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I falter, playing the game as well as I can.
“I can have the car prepared within the hour. Go. Visit your father. Emiliana will be at school and you can return by the time she arrives home.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, earnestly.
“Of course, my love. Go get dressed.”
“Thank you, Mikhail,” I whisper, as he leans in for a quick kiss.
***
Ninety minutes later, the car glides through the heavy iron gates of my father’s estate. I don’t wait for the driver to open my door, bursting out in a fury of clicking heels against the cobblestones.
I fling open the front door, not bothering to announce myself. My father’s study is just down the hall, the thick oak door shut tight. I don’t knock, shoving it wide open.
He looks up calmly from his desk, unsurprised by my dramatic entrance.
“Caterina,” he says mildly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Father,” I gasp, breathless. “Ivan has identified the shooter.”
I don’t know what I expect. Joy, pride that I thought of him, some sense of emotion. Instead, he just looks back at his papers. He doesn’t even offer me a seat.
“Don’t you want to know who it was?”
He looks up at me over the brim of his glasses. “Oh, Caterina. You’re such a simpleton.”
