Page 184 of The Contract

He said it was an accident.

I wonder if it’s the same kind of accident I’ll be gifted if I ever step too far out of line.

He glances at the untouched tray on the table and frowns. “You should eat.”

“I am eating.”

His mouth quirks—wry, a little sad. “My babushka’s cookies don’t count.”

His great-grandmother, technically.

But dementia’s stripped her of time and titles.

She’s all Russian fire and Italian chaos. And nearly every day, a storm—baking through the madness like sugar might reglue a mind unraveling thread by thread.

I don’t complain.

Sometimes I help her.

Play with the kids. Clean what’s already spotless.

Because I need something to do besides sit here like a doll. Dressed nice and locked up, just waiting to be moved.

“The cemetery?” he asks.

I nod, a little too quickly. My obsession with all things gothic slipping through. “I found one yesterday. The tiniest headstone from 1798.”

I thumb through my notebook and try to say the name.

The syllables twist in my mouth like a curse. “S… Svyat—Svyatoslav… something.”

The groundskeeper, sweeping nearby, leans in just enough to glance over my shoulder.

“Svyatoslav Mstislavovich Vasilenko.”

He says it slow. Patient. A quiet kind of reverence curling around every syllable—so much pride in his mother tongue.

In exchange, I throw the occasional bit of Scottish Gaelic his way.

The little I recall.

“1761–1798. Forever My Beloved.”

It’s the smallest headstone in the cemetery. And somehow, it manages to hit the hardest.

I swallow the tear before it can fall and shut the book.

I found it on the way to Dante’s mausoleum—though I don’t dare say that out loud.

The D’Angelos made it a fortress. One I break into.

Every. Goddamn. Day.

In two months, I’ve left more flowers than I can count.

Evil master leaves them for me.

And I leave them for Dante.

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