Page 6 of Single Mom's Daddies
She was our general and our guardian, long before we understood what that meant. She wore fur-lined coats while carving out territories and humming lullabies under her breath. She never raised a hand to us—but she once slit a man’s cheek open with her ring finger for raising his voice to Victor.
And now she keeps pieces of those stories in plain sight.
I spot Mila walking the path toward Olenna’s porch, Alex trailing close behind like a loyal little duckling. They’re whispering, pointing at something she’s cupped in her hand. Probably that damned vertebra again.
I set the mug down hard enough for the ceramic to crack.
By the time I make it downstairs and outside, the sun is full overhead and the pool water glistens like liquid sapphire. I pass the covered patio where we eat during the warmer months—Italian marble tables, iron lanterns dangling from the beams, the whole setup designed by some Miami interior guy Victor insisted on using. Expensive. Subtle. The kind of opulence you don’t question until you notice that the umbrella stands are weighted with reinforced steel, and the backyard sound system doubles as a surveillance network. Or that the heavy patio furniture is bulletproof.
The main house sits in the heart of the compound—part Mediterranean villa, part fortress. White stone walls, clay roof tiles, sensor-lined windows that overlook the curved driveway and iron gate. It’s beautiful and cold, exactly how we like it.
Olenna’s cottage is neither.
It’s smaller, built from local limestone with timber beams, two chimneys, and a sloping roof that always smells like woodsmoke no matter the season. The windows are old-fashioned, with lacecurtains she embroidered herself. The porch has a rocking chair, a row of wind chimes made from spent shell casings, and a crucifix hung sideways on purpose—“to keep men honest,” she says. Whatever that means.
I knock once and walk in.
The scent hits me immediately—cedar, pepper, and that strange sweet tang of varnished bone.
Inside, the place is a museum of her past lives. Rugs layered over rugs—Persian, Russian, Chechen. A brass samovar whistles gently on a coal-fired stove. The walls are crowded with paintings, old war medals, Orthodox icons, and hunting trophies that were never animals in the literal sense. Shelves overflow with artifacts. A chipped tooth in a glass vial. A knife carved from a femur. A silver flask with a bullet hole in the middle. There’s a carved wooden cane against the wall that once belonged to a man who tried to assassinate her. She broke it over his skull and kept the better half.
Mila stands in front of a low shelf, pointing to a rib bone bleached white and mounted on black velvet. “Is that really from a person?”
Olenna, seated on the divan with her knitting needles clicking, glances over her glasses. “Yes, malen’kaya. A very rude one.”
Alex gapes. Mila beams. “That’s so cool.”
Olenna smiles faintly. “Only because you’re too young to know better.”
“Can I hold it?”
“No. But you may look. Carefully.”
I clear my throat. All three turn to me. Alex brightens. Mila looks guiltily pleased. Olenna doesn’t flinch. I give a polite smile, trying to restrain myself. “I need a word.”
“I’m busy. The children visit.”
“Mila, Alex,” I say, voice firm. “Outside.”
“But we were?—”
“Now.”
They obey, though Mila shoots me a withering glare over her tiny shoulder. Alex just shrugs and follows her out the front door, still whispering about bones.
I wait until the door clicks shut behind them before speaking. “You can’t keep this shit on open display.”
Olenna leans back in her seat. Her dress is some dark burgundy thing with embroidery at the cuffs. Her long white braid is twisted into a crown around her head. Her slippers are fur lined and bloodred. “You don’t like my decorating, Romochka?”
“It’s not about your taste.”
“No?” she asks, her accent thicker than it used to be when we were small. “Then what is it about?”
“The kids are getting curious.”
“They’re smart. Curious is good.”
“They’reasking questions, Olenna. Questions that don’t have soft answers.”
