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“Good.” Willow giggles and wraps her arms around my neck. “I helped Mommy clean the sunroom today.”
“Did you? Good job!” I feign shock and admiration, fully knowing what her version of “helped” probably means. She more than likely “supervised” while Clara did her best to teach different things like sweeping. It’s a habit of hers I’ve noticed and I kind of admire it.
From afar.
“Wanna help me clean my office?”
“Yeah!”
I tuck Willow into the crook of one arm while I grab my briefcase with my free hand and lead us to my home office. My version of “cleaning” involves letting Willow play with markers or something while I review reports from the daily Bratva dealings. A few of myvorshave been handling shipments of smuggled antiquities—actualantiquities, not anything coded about it—and I need to verify the balance sheets match our expectations.
She’s easy to entertain. I set her down inside my office and she immediately skips over to plop herself onto one of the lounge chairs. I expect her to ask me for something, but she only smiles at me and kicks her feet against the cushion to make them bounce. “What do ya wanna clean first?”
Ah. Right.“Here, umm…” I glance around for something she can “clean” with. “How about you help me organize the books?Smallest to biggest.” I’m not sure how advanced her reading skills are, so that seems like a safe strategy.
Willow grins and hops back off the chair. “Okay!”
When I see she’s being careful with sliding the books out of the lowest shelf and even dusting them with her fingers and shirt, I relax and slide into my desk chair. As expected, the accounting sheets are printed and ready for me on the desk.
It’s a bit old school, I know. But it’s safer to burn incriminating evidence that it is to delete it.
Pavel did a thorough job ensuring every crate contained exactly what we’d ordered, and by the looks of it, he even negotiated a better price over the shipment of those silly nesting dolls.
The sound of breaking glass and a gasp yanks my attention from the paperwork. Willow’s eyes meet mine, then quickly dart away as she drops to the floor and scrambles to pick up the pieces of a picture frame.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Her little voice wavers, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry!”
I’m not even thinking about the mess—the second I see her picking up broken glass, I rush to her side and crouch down to help her. But when I do, she drops whatever is in her hands and stumbles back on her heels.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorry, Daddy!”
Willow bursts into tears and curls up into herself, wrapping her arms over her head in what is an unmistakable attempt to protect herself.
Normally, I’d be pissed. The picture inside the frame is one of my favorites of Tolya and myself when we were kids. Both of us were sunburnt and scraped, but we were genuinely happy.
But as I look at Willow and see the way she instantly cowers in fear, her body trembling almost violently as she sobs and hiccups through her sobs how sorry she is…
The only person I’m pissed at is Martin.
“Hey.” I soften my voice and reach for her. “Hey, it’s okay. Come here.”
She doesn’t want to at first, but I gently pry one arm away from her head. It’s enough to peek at her and get her to see my face.
“Come here, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
Willow sniffs and slowly unfurls, inching her way into my arms.
“Are you hurt?” I make a point to carefully examine her hands. No signs of damage. “Did you cut yourself?”
She slowly shakes her head. “No…”
“That’s good. I was worried.”
She looks at me, and I see the confusion in her eyes. Confusion that shouldn’t be there, along with the fear that no man should have ever instilled in her. “You… you were?” she asks between sniffles.
I nod solemnly. “Glass is very sharp and can hurt you. Next time, just ask a grownup for help, okay?”
Willow looks at the broken frame and starts to breathe faster in panic. “B-but I b-broke y-your?—”
