Page 125 of Kings of Cruelty

Ma glares at me when I switch to Russian, and I fight back the urge to sigh. Mila doesn’t understand much English, though, and I don’t want her to feel any more isolated than she needs to be while she’s here.

“Anastasia is ready to eat,” Silvano declares, lifting her up. “Mrs. Winters, do you want to hold her?”

Ma tenses up, the way she always does with Silvano and Kyran, but she snatches Anastasia from Silvano’s arms. Anastasia laughs and reaches for Ma’s earrings, entranced by the shiny objects.

I wish Mila spoke more English. My mother could use a friend to help her navigate the changes in her life. Maybe Ma will warm up to her despite the inauspicious way I’d met her son if she sees how truly kind Mila is. Now that Mila is in the United States, it would help both of them to have someone close.

That’ll be my goal for the next few weeks.

“Mama!” Anastasia says when I pass her, and I lean down to kiss the top of her head as I sit on the other side of my mother.

“Hey, Stasya,” I tell her, and when she squirms to get out of Ma’s arms, I take her and settle her into her high chair.

The others take their seats as well, with Konstantin taking the head of the table and Kyran taking the opposite side.

“Let’s say grace,” Ma announces, which makes everyone at the table go quiet. None of us are particularly religious, and her insistence on following old traditions makes everyone uncomfortable. Konstantin translates for Mila, who nods and extends her hand to Konstantin and Nikolai around her.

My mother leads us in a prayer that—thankfully—doesn’t involve beseeching Kyran and Silvano to return the next year with wives in tow like she used to do for Kyran. When she finishes, Mila adds her own words in Russian, praying for her granddaughter’s good health.

I guess there’s nothing wrong with that. “Amen,” we all say, and then we can finally eat.

Of course, Anastasia is at the age where she thinks it’s hilarious to spit food out. She lets me feed her two spoonfuls before she’s spitting it all onto her high chair’s tray.

“Stasya,” I say with exasperation. “It’s yummy!” I make a show of eating some of it myself.

It doesn’t help. Anastasia bangs her spoon onto the tray and gleefully knocks the food to the ground.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Ma says. “And the food is too…ethnic.”

We all freeze. I open my mouth, ready to admonish her about the remark, when Silvano says, “Russian is an ethnicity, yes. So is American. Anyway, the roast is perfect. You did a great job, Yuri.Spasibo.”

Yuri makes an awkward sound. “Yeah. It was mostly Kot—Kostya though.”

“It’s roast, Ma,” I mutter to her. “It’s notsaloor anything.”

I use the Russian name for the pork dish mostly to annoy her, and her cheeks flush.

Nikolai clears his throat, then says, “Here. There are mashed potatoes. She might like those more?”

I pass him Anastasia’s plate, and he puts a small mound of them on it.

“Yum,” I tell Anastasia when I set the plate in front of her, encouraging her to try it.

Somehow we get through lunch, with the conversation easing somewhat. Silvano does his best to engage Mila in conversation, with Nikolai and Konstantin translating—and sometimes arguing about the translation. Kyran and Yuri end up talking about motorcycles, which is the safest topic for them.

I excuse myself to go get the cake, which is a fancy mousse cake that Konstantin had insisted on. “There’s no point in ordering a bad cake,” he’d said, and he’s right enough about that. Mila helps me put away dishes.

I get a single candle to put in the center of the cake.

“Thank you,” Mila says in Russian.

I glance at her, puzzled. “You’re welcome, but what for?”

She smiles gently at me. “For taking care of Kostya. He was always a sad boy. His father made him an angry man. But now he’s smiling.”

The thought of his father—of what Konstantin had done to his father—is enough to give me pause. It’s a good thing shedoesn’t know how Igor Voronkov died, or that Konstantin was involved at all. “He’s a good man,” I say.

And he is.

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