Page 177 of Cruel Demands

My father believes this was a natural career transition. My father is a very intelligent man in most areas. He also believes Mikhail’s restaurants are successful because Mikhail is unusually good at business. This is also technically true.

My parents moved to Russia fourteen months ago. They were able to be long-distance grandparents for exactly as long as the visa process took, and then they couldn’t stand it anymore.

Mikhail offered them the east wing. I said no. My father said hell fucking no. Mikhail accepted that answer. That may have been the most convincing evidence of personal growth he has ever produced.

Instead, my parents live fifteen minutes away in a house my father insists they purchased themselves despite the fact that I have seen the paperwork and know exactly how creative Mikhail can become when someone tries to refuse his money.

Dad runs one of the restaurants. Not for Mikhail, according to Dad. With Mikhail. This distinction is extremely important to him. That distinction was his condition for running something that had any connection with Mikhail. He wanted a kitchen, ownership, and the right to tell Mikhail to get out of it whenever he became annoying. Mikhail agreed to all three. He even put them in writing.

Dad likes him considerably more now that Mikhail is “out of politics and doing something honest.” I have never asked what he thinks the armed men in the private dining rooms are doing. My mother knows more. She has chosen peace. I respect her for it.

By noon, we are at the restaurant. My father is already shouting at someone in the kitchen when we arrive. I hear him before I see him. “No. No, no, no. That is not enough garlic.”

The chef responds rapidly in Russian.

Dad points at the pan. “I don’t care what you just said. More.”

“You know he cannot understand you,” I tell him when he comes through the swinging doors.

“He understands tone and pointing.”

“Like a dog,” I sigh.

“You said it, not me,” he says, grimacing at the chef. Dad kisses my cheek, then takes Nadia from Mikhail without asking. “There’s my girl.”

“Papa,” Nadia says.

Dad stops. “No. Grandpa.”

“Papa.”

He looks at Mikhail. “She does this to upset me.”

“She is expressing herself,” Mikhail says.

Dad points at him. “You. Kitchen. I want to talk about the fish delivery.”

Mikhail looks at me. I smile sweetly. “Go do restaurant crime.”

My father frowns. “What?”

“Restaurant time,” I say. Mikhail’s mouth twitches.

Viktoriya is already sitting at our usual table near the windows.

She looks almost exactly the same as she did when I first met her, except the suits are more expensive and she wears the exhaustion of someone who works directly for a powerful woman. “Late,” she says.

“I have a toddler.”

“You were late yesterday too.”

“You’re not going to believe this. I had a toddler then too.” I sit across from her. “Where’s your husband?”

“At home.”

“Doing what?”

She shrugs. “Cleaning?”