“I will handle it for you,” Balalaika says. “Someone put their hand on you, so now they lose that hand.”

It sounds fair to her. You’re her child, her baby, there’s nothing in the world she won’t do for you. She’s never been an affectionate mother, nor has she been there for you emotionally, but she’d never let anyone harm you and walk away. She loves you, even if she doesn’t say it.

“Who?” she asks, aggressively lighting her cigar. “Answer.”