“Roman called twice,” he says. “He wants updates the second you’re free.”
“Did we get anything useful?”
“Not yet.”
I rub the back of my neck slowly. “The warehouse?”
His jaw clenches. “Cleaned.”
That means the men responsible are either dead already or close to it. Good.
A quiet laugh rises from deeper inside the house before I can answer him again.
Maggie.
The sound hits my chest harder than the fight earlier tonight. The knot in my chest loosens. Then, I walk farther into the house.
The scent of warm vanilla mixed with sugar and melted butter reaches me before the kitchen comes fully into view. It glows beneath golden pendant lights while flour dusts half the marble island and cookie dough covers nearly every available surface. Ivy stands barefoot on one of the stools, wearing pink pajamas, while Maggie stands beside her, laughing at whatever disaster they have created.
My daughter has flour tangled through her dark hair, and Maggie has a streak of white across one cheek and dough smudged near the sleeve of her shirt. My steps slow automatically. For one painful second, the entire room looks ordinary, warm, and untouched by the violence waiting outside these walls.
The normalcy almost feels like anger because normal is dangerous in my world. Normal convinces people they are safe long enough to lower their guard, and lowered guards get people hurt.
Maggie looks up first, and the smile on her face fades the second her eyes land on me, not from fear but from recognition. She finally sees the part of me I’ve kept buried beneath tailored suits, calm answers, and polished manners.
Her eyes move from my face down to my hand. Then farther toward the faint blood staining my cuff. Every muscle in her body stiffens.
Ivy spins around on the stool when she hears me approaching. “Papa!”
She launches herself off the stool before Maggie can stop her.
Ivy crashes into my chest at full speed. My arm circles her automatically while I lift her against me, and she immediately starts talking fast enough that half the words blend. Her little hands grip my shoulders while she rambles about cookie dough disasters, Winston stealing ingredients off the counter, and Maggie allegedly betraying her by revealing the true number of eggs destroyed during baking.
“We made cookies and Maggie let me crack the eggs and I only dropped one and Winston stole dough off the counter and Irina said he looked guilty but Maggie said dogs don't feel guilt.”
I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the familiar strawberry scent from her shampoo. Home used to mean Clara’s laugh echoing through this house and Ivy asleep against my chest after long nights. Now the meaning has expanded to this little girl inmy arms and the woman standing across the kitchen, staring at me as if she no longer knows what to make of me.
“You dropped three eggs,” Maggie says.
Ivy gasps theatrically. “Traitor.”
Maggie laughs, and the sound lightens the atmosphere in the kitchen almost instantly. Men near the back hallway relax again. One of the guards resumes speaking quietly into his earpiece.
Everyone in this house watches my mood before deciding how to breathe around me, and Maggie is no exception. Her attention keeps returning to my hand, to the bruised knuckles and blood staining my cuff.
“Papa hurt his hand,” Ivy says suddenly.
Children notice everything.
I glance down at her. “It's nothing serious,solnyshko.”
Maggie folds her arms slowly across her chest. “Looks serious enough.”
The softness in her voice disappears, replaced by frustration sharp enough to cut through glass. Good. I prefer anger to fear because fear creates distance, while anger means she still plans to fight rather than walk away. Even if part of me knows she probably should.
I set Ivy down before moving toward the sink. The faucet water is cold on my knuckles while diluted blood circles down the drain.
Maggie steps closer, inspecting my hand. “You need stitches.”
