Page 259 of Merciless Daddy

“Bribery,” I said around it.

“It’s called nutrition.”

“You are behaving very strangely.”

“I am behaving exactly as I always do. My goodness—six months and she doesn’t know me yet.”

“That is the strangest thing you’ve said yet.”

A door slammed downstairs.

Footsteps crossed the hall. Quick. Familiar. Completely disrespectful of the fact that the house had a doorbell.

Kiryl appeared in the bedroom doorway carrying the painted wooden bird I bought him in The Bahamas under one arm and his coat under the other.

He looked healthy.

It was still the first thing I noticed, though not with the old desperation.

His face had filled out. His shoulders no longer curved inward as if he expected criticism to fall from the ceiling. His pale eyes remained softer than mine, but they met people directly now.

He wore jeans, battered sneakers, and a sweater with one sleeve pushed to his elbow. Ordinary clothes. Ordinary hurry. Ordinary irritation.

“Katerina expects me at Filoxenia in twenty minutes,” he said. “Apparently being late to help move cake stands is a moral failure.”

“It is,” Sal said.

“You’re Sicilian. Stay out of Greek law.”

Kiryl crossed the room and took the untouched toast from Sal’s plate.

Sal looked at his empty hand.

“Did you ask?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Internally.”

“That does not count.”

“It counts in Russia.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said.

Kiryl took a large bite.

The painted bird was tucked carefully against his ribs. Red wings. Gold body. He carried it between his apartment, his classes, and anywhere he expected to sleep.

“You’re bringing the bird to the bakery?” I asked.

“I stayed at the townhouse last night. I’m taking it home later.”

“You know, most adults can move through a city without carrying a wooden toy.”

He looked at the wolf on my window seat.