Chapter 3 - The Nanny Who LiedMikhail sent Misha to sit at the counter with a mug of hot chocolate I made with too much whipped cream and the last of my good cocoa.
The child obeyed, but his eyes stayed on his father.
Mine did too.
Mikhail Volkov made quiet look dangerous.
His men searched my diner with a precision that told me this was not their first time looking for hidden things. Booth cushions. Trash bins. Bathroom vents. The alley.
Every few seconds, one of them reported in low Russian.
I caught only one English phrase.
“No tracker.”
“Tracker?” I said.
Mikhail did not answer.
Misha did.
“My watch,” he said softly. “Papa gave me one. It tells him where I am.”
I looked at his bare wrist.
“Where is it?”
The boy’s mouth trembled. “Ana said it needed charging.”
Mikhail closed his eyes.
Just once.
It was the first crack in him.
“She removed it before she abandoned him,” I said.
He opened his eyes again, and the crack disappeared.
“Not abandoned. Delivered.”
The word made my skin crawl.
“Delivered to who?”
He turned toward the rain-streaked windows.
“Someone who wanted to see whether I would burn the city looking.”
I thought of the phone call. The SUVs. The way his men stood between Misha and the world.
And suddenly I understood something terrible.
This child had not wandered into my diner by accident.
He had been placed in a storm like bait.
My diner had simply been the warm place he found before the trap closed.
A police siren wailed somewhere far away and faded.
Nobody inside moved.
Then Mikhail’s phone rang.
He answered without greeting.
A woman’s voice came through, frantic and high enough for me to hear.
“Mikhail, I just heard! Is Misha with you? Is he safe?”
His face did not change.
“Yes, Irina.”
Irina.
Even the name sounded expensive.
“Oh, thank God.” A pause. “Where are you?”
“A diner.”
“A diner? Why? Bring him home. We’re all waiting.”
We.
Misha lowered his eyes.
Mikhail watched him.
“Who told you he was missing?”
Silence.
On the other end, the woman stopped breathing.
“What?”
“I asked who told you.”
“Your office called. Or—your brother did. I don’t know. Everyone is panicked.”
Mikhail’s voice dropped. “No one from my office has called the family.”
The line crackled.
Then Irina laughed nervously. “Mikhail, this is not the time for interrogations.”
“No,” he said. “It is exactly the time.”
He ended the call.
Misha stared into his hot chocolate.
“I don’t like Aunt Irina,” he whispered.
Mikhail’s hand tightened around the phone.
“Why?”
“She smiles when people cry.”
No one spoke.
I looked at the little boy, then at the father whose enemies were apparently close enough to know his home, his staff, his child’s watch.
Against every sane instinct, I asked, “Is he safe going back there?”
All eyes turned to me.
Mikhail’s were unreadable.
Then he said, “No.”
The single word landed heavier than thunder.
Misha looked up, terrified.
Mikhail stepped closer to me.
“You have a spare room upstairs?”
I stared at him. “Absolutely not.”
“My son will sleep here tonight.”
“No, he will not.”
“Yes,” Mikhail said quietly. “He will.”
May you like
Behind him, lightning flashed again.
And from the alley behind my diner, glass shattered.
