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As I eat, I keep an eye on my charge, who’s eating quietly beside me. Alina has given Slava a small portion of everything the adults are having, the caviar sandwich included, and the boy seems to have no problem with that. There are no demands for chicken fingers or French fries, no sign of the typical pickiness of a four-year-old. Even his table manners are those of a much older child, with only a couple of instances of him grabbing a piece of food with his fingers instead of his fork.
“Your son is very well-behaved,” I tell Alina and Nikolai, and Nikolai lifts his eyebrows, as if hearing it for the first time.
“Well-behaved? Slava?”
“Of course.” I frown at him. “You don’t think so?”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” he says, glancing at the boy, who’s diligently spearing a piece of lettuce with his adult-sized fork. “I suppose he conducts himself reasonably well.”
Reasonably well? A four-year-old who sits calmly and eats everything served to him with zero whining or interruptions of adult conversation? Who handles utensils like a pro? Maybe this is a thing in Europe, but I’ve certainly never seen it in America.
Also, why hasn’t my employer given his son’s behavior much thought? Aren’t parents supposed to worry about things like that?
“Have you been around many other children his age?” I ask Nikolai on a hunch, and catch his mouth flattening for a second.
“No,” he says curtly. “I haven’t.”
Alina shoots him an indecipherable look, then turns to me. “I don’t know if my brother has told you this,” she says in a measured tone, “but we only learned of Slava’s existence eight months ago.”
I choke on a pickled tomato I’ve just bitten into and break into a coughing fit, the spicy, vinegary juices having gone down the wrong pipe. “Wait, what?” I gasp out when I can speak.
Eight months ago?
And did she just call Nikolai her brother?
“I see this is news to you,” Alina says, handing me a glass of water, which I gratefully gulp down. “Kolya”—she glances at Nikolai, who’s wearing a hard, closed-off expression—“hasn’t told you much about us, has he?”
“Um, no.” I set the glass down and cough again to clear the hoarseness from my voice. “Not really.” My new employer hasn’t said much at all, but I’ve made all sorts of assumptions, and wrong ones at that.
Alina is Nikolai’s sister, not his wife. Which means the boy is not her son.
They didn’t know he existed until eight months ago.
God, that explains so much. No wonder father and son act like they’re strangers to each other—they are, for all intents and purposes. And I was right when I sensed a lack of lover-like intimacy between Nikolai and Alina.
They aren’t lovers.
They’re siblings.
Looking at the two of them now, I don’t understand how I could’ve missed the resemblance—or rather, why the resemblance I did notice didn’t clue me in to their familial relationship. Alina’s features are a softer, more delicate version of the man sitting in front of me, and though her green eyes lack the deep amber undertones of Nikolai’s stunning gaze, the shape of her eyes and eyebrows is the same.
They’re clearly, unmistakably siblings.
Which means Nikolai is not married.
Or at least not married to Alina.
“Where is Slava’s mother?” I ask, striving for a casual tone. “Is she—”
“She’s dead.” Nikolai’s voice is cold enough to give frostbite, as is the look he levels at Alina. Turning back to face me, he says evenly, “We had a one-night stand five years ago, and she didn’t tell me she was pregnant. I had no idea I had a son until she was killed in a car accident eight months ago, and a friend of hers found a diary naming me as the father.”
“Oh, that’s…” I swallow. “That must’ve been very difficult. For you, and especially for Slava.” I look at the boy at my side, who’s still eating calmly, as if he has no care in the world. But that’s not the case at all, I know that now. Nikolai’s son has survived one of the biggest tragedies that can befall a child, and however well-adjusted he seems, I have no doubt the loss of his mother has left deep scars on his psyche.
I’m an adult, and I’m having trouble coping with my grief. I can’t imagine what it’s like for a little boy.
“It was,” Alina agrees softly. “In fact, my brother—”
“That’s enough.” Nikolai’s tone is still perfectly level, but I can see the tension in his jaw and shoulders. The topic is an unpleasant one for him, and no wonder. I can’t imagine what it must be like to find out you have a child you’ve never met, to know you’ve missed the first years of his life.
I have a million questions I want to ask, but I can tell now’s not the time to indulge my curiosity. Instead, I reach for more food and spend the next few minutes complimenting the chef—who, it turns out, is indeed the gruff, bear-like Russian.
