Mama looks up from her batch of dumplings. She’s gotten awfully proud of her handiwork these days. Zoya even gave her a “Not bad” last week, which is about as effusive as the old woman’s praise ever gets. “Did I ever tell you girls about the blackout during the ‘03 heatwave? Leander tried—”
I frown. Thunder with no lightning? That’s strange. But then—
That’s someone knocking on the door.
“Knocking” is a pretty polite way to put it, actually. It’s less a knock and more a full-body slam against our heavy wooden door. My heart jumps into my throat—because I only know one person in the world who knocks like that.
We all freeze. Sasha’s hand drips olive oil from the bruschetta he’s assembling as he moves toward the door. I see him pluck the cleaver from the cutting board as he goes.
My h
