“You were about to.”
“He needs a home.”
“No.”
“We have a home.”
“No.”
“We have a very large home.”
“That is not an argument.”
“He could live in the laundry room.”
“Our housekeeper would resign.”
“He could live in your office.”
“I would resign.”
Ray snorted.
Mikhail looked at him.
Ray coughed and became intensely interested in the coffee machine.
Misha stepped closer to his father. “Just until the storm ends?”
Mikhail looked down at the kitten. The kitten, perhaps sensing opportunity, placed one tiny paw against his thumb.
A change came over Mikhail’s face so subtle that I might have missed it if I hadn’t been looking.
It was not surrender.
It was worse.
It was tenderness pretending not to exist.
“Until we locate a proper shelter,” he said.
Misha’s smile was instant and radiant.
He threw his arms around his father’s waist. “Thank you, Papa.”
Mikhail rested one hand on his head.
“You will dry him. You will feed him. You will not bring creatures into my meetings.”
Misha nodded solemnly. “Only small ones.”
“No creatures.”
“Very small ones?”
“Misha.”
“All right.”
For a few seconds, the diner felt almost normal.
A boy. A father. A kitten. Ray grumbling. Rain outside. Warmth inside.
Then one of the men at the door stepped in.
“Sir,” he said, “we found the nanny’s car.”
Mikhail turned.
The softness vanished.
“Where?”
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