Page 65 of Lethal Legacy

“I gather you weren’t expecting me,” I say dryly.

The children freeze. Mickey’s smile fades. He puts down his wooden spoons, placing them carefully to one side. Ofelia taps her phone, and the music stops. Her face falls back into its customary haughty lines. Only Masha keeps jiggling on her stool, pleading aloud for Ofelia to “play Poppins again.”

“Well, no. Clearly we weren’t expecting you.” Lucia gathers herself with admirable alacrity, but I can see the glitter in her eyes, the nervous tension in her body. “But since you’re here, you can test our second batch ofalfajores.” She picks up a tray sitting on the stovetop and carries it over to the counter. “Masha was just about to dust them with icing sugar for me.”

“It’s my job,” Masha tells me solemnly.

“Shhh, Masha,” Ofelia hisses, casting me a wary look that makes me feel oddly ashamed.

When did I change from being “Uncle Roman” to someone the children fear?

Fair enough, I was never exactly the superfun uncle. But I threw a ball with Mickey. Tossed Ofelia in the air. Turned up with presents on birthdays.

I don’t remember the last time, though, that I saw any of them laugh. And that suddenly strikes me as a profound failing on my part.

“Don’t stop for me.” Taking off my jacket and tie, I throw both over the back of the couch and walk into the kitchen, rolling my sleeves up. “Show me how to dust those cookies, Masha.” I remember just in time that the apartment door is still open and turn around, glaring at the grinning guards, both of whom immediately exit and close it behind them.

“We promised Dimitry he could try the second batch,” says Mickey quietly, staring at the counter.

“Dimitry has been our official tester,” Lucia explains.

I feel a stab of something uncomfortably like jealousy. Which makes no fucking sense. Why the hell would I feel jealous of Dimitry, taste-testing cookies for a six-year-old? Except that they all looked so damnhappy—before they caught sight of me. Not to mention that he also got to watch Lucia dancing, which is close to the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t like the thought of him, or anyone else for that matter, watching her.

I don’t like the idea of Dimitry replacing me in my own household. Even if it is just as professional cookie taster.

“Well, I used to eat alotofalfajores.” I look at the three little faces staring warily back at me and feel another unwelcome pang of something like guilt. “Can I try one first?”

Mickey glances at Ofelia, who gives a faint shrug of one shoulder. Masha looks between her elder siblings, then breaks into a gap-toothed grin. “Here,” she says, holding out a rather misshapen cookie. “Ofelia done them.”

“Did them,” Lucia corrects mildly.

“You put caramel in ’tween two,” Masha says importantly, pushing so hard on her example that she completely crushes the soft cookie and sends caramel oozing out the sides. “Oops,” she says, not looking remotely sorry.

“I think I understand how the kitchen wound up looking so... colorful,” I say.

Lucia grimaces. “Yup. Sorry about that.”

I bite into the cookie and close my eyes briefly. It tastes exactly like those of my childhood: meltingly soft, intoxicatingly sweet, and immeasurably comforting. It’s like biting into the happiest time of my life.

“Well?” Ofelia demands. Three expectant faces turn to me.

I swallow. “The last time I atealfajores,” I say musingly, “was in a world-famous restaurant.” Their faces begin to fall. “And do you know,” I go on, “I think these are actually better?”

Mickey frowns. “Yeah,right,” he says heavily.

“Um, excuse me!” Lucia raps his arm with a caramel-covered wooden spoon that leaves a significant smear. “Oops,” she says, making Masha giggle. “But I did tell you I make the bestalfajoresyou will ever taste.” She shakes her spoon at them in a way that makes even me smile. “Don’t you be doubting me, or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

“God forbid.” I roll my eyes theatrically, which seems to mildly thaw the children’s faces. I put a handful of cookies onto a plate and hold it out to Masha to dust, which she solemnly does, before handing them to Mickey. “You should probably put Dimitry out of his misery,” I say, grinning.

Mickey actually meets my eyes. They’re the same deep cobalt as his father’s, I realize with a pang. I wonder why I never really saw that before. But where Mikhail’s were always sparkling with laughter, Mickey’s are usually shadowed and wary. Right now, though, there’s a faint hint of his father’s fun in them, and it makes me want to see more of it. “Dimitry ate the entire last batch almost by himself,” he says, with something akin to awe.

“Good. That should slow him down in the boxing ring,” I say with a slightly vicious smile.

“Wow.” Ofelia gives me a look that’s almost admiring. “You’re seriously mean.”

“I do my best,” I say cheerfully. “So.” I look around at the disaster that is the kitchen. “Are you guys going to help me clean this up?”

“You?” Ofelia looks at me incredulously. “You’regoing to help clean up?”

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