Kir barked out a laugh along with everyone else, but directed his words to Sergei. “He’s a clever one, moy brat.” He shifted his attention to Emerson and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I should make you suffer and force you to wait through the song.”

“But you won’t,” Emerson said. “You like good food and good music too much to sit through all of us singing off key, and everyone knows Olga’s cakes are the bomb.”

Roman’s low chuckle sounded on Kir’s opposite side. While his friend of many years was never long on words, his voice was menacingly deep and the growl as intimidating as his size. “He has you there.”

“Indeed,” Sergei said, the pride behind his dark eyes as he gazed upon Emerson unmistakable—even to a man who’d never known the pleasure of receiving such a look.

“Well, then. It seems we’re all in agreement.” Kir stuffed the depressing reminder of his youth back down to the bowels of his memory, grabbed his Stoli Elit and raised it in salute. “Let us cut the cake and eat.”

He’d expected something simple—either a vanilla or chocolate center. He should have known Sergei’s cook—imported directly from Mother Russia when they’d relocated to the States—would do the unexpected and bake something indescribable.

“That’s good,” Roman grunted after shoveling in his second bite. “What’s in it? Tastes like almond.”

Evette licked a dab of icing off her lip and nodded. “Almond cake, gold cake and devil’s food all mixed together, plus raspberry jelly and rum.”

“She’s a genius,” Emerson said with a mouthful, earning him a sharp look from his mother. He dutifully swallowed before he kept going. “You should open a bakery, Dad. We’d make a fortune with Olga’s cooking.”

“Nyet,” Sergei said between bites. “If she cooks for everyone else, she cannot cook for us.”

The wide eyes that came with Emerson’s quick comprehension were comical. “Oh. Right.” He forked up another bite and shook his head. “Bad idea.”

For only five people, they put a significant dent in the cake in no time, the sheer gluttony of the night and the sugar rush from their dessert slowing the conversation considerably. Even Emerson, who usually seemed tireless, was a little heavy-lidded by the time everyone pushed their plates away.

Evette noted her boy’s fatigue and leaned in to Sergei, whispering something in his ear.

Sergei nodded, stood and motioned for Emerson to do the same. “Come. It’s time to get you and your mother home.”

Kir and Roman got to their feet as well.

“But it’s Uncle Kir’s birthday! The guys said we’re doing more birthday stuff after dinner.”

“No, they’re doing birthday stuff later.” Evette scooted her chair under the glass-topped table and laid her napkin beside her empty plate. “The places they’re going don’t let eight-year-olds join the fun. You’ll have to stay home and keep your momma company.”

“Just wait,” Kir said to Emerson. “When you turn twenty-one, all the men will take you out, and you don’t have to go home at all if you don’t want to.”