Vlad
Mika comes in at nine, looking upset.
“What happened?” I ask.
He shakes his head, a little frown burrowed deep between his brows.
“Eat some food,” I tell him.
He goes to the table and uncovers the dishes, picking at them, still standing.
I give him a few minutes, then I go over. “Sit.” I tug out one of the chairs and drop into the other one.
Mika sits. I can read misery all over him. But getting him to talk is another thing.
“I grew up in the streets of Moscow, too,” I offer. “My mother gave me over to the bratva, like yours.”
He lifts his eyes, wary but listening.
“I still hate her for it.”
Alessia looks over from the couch where she was reading one of the romance novels she insisted I download for her.
Mika drops his head, chin wobbling .
I don’t touch him. Don’t wa
