“There’s a function tonight,” he says from the doorway of the nursery.
That’s all.
In our family, that means men with guns under their jackets and women in silk pretending not to notice.
I finish the last button before I look at him. “Then have a lovely time.”
He ignores the tone. “You’re coming.”
“No.”
His gaze shifts past me to Nikolai, who is kneeling on the rug with his train bridge in pieces around him, deeply committed to rebuilding it with mathematical seriousness.
“And he is, too.”
For a second, I think I heard him wrong. “Nikolai?”
“Yes.”
I stand so fast Sofia stumbles back with an offended sound.
“Absolutely not.”
Papa steps into the room. “It’s a family gathering.”
“It’s a mafia party.”
His expression does not change. “Do not use that word in front of the children.”
“Then do not invite my son to one.”
Nikolai looks up. “What’s a party?”
Sofia answers before I can. “Dancing and cake.”
Papa almost smiles. “There will be both.”
“No,” I say again, more quietly this time, because my anger has sharpened. “He’s four.”
“He’s my grandson.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough of one.”
I take a step toward him. “You’re not putting him on display.”
“Display?” Papa repeats, offended now. “He will be introduced.”
“To whom?”
“People who matter.”
I laugh once, without humor. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Nikolai is still watching us. He’s old enough now to know when adult voices turn dangerous, even if they stay calm.
Mama appears behind Papa a moment later, probably drawn by instinct. She takes in the room in one glance, Sofia hovering near the bed, Nikolai on the floor, me standing too straight, Papa too composed.
