The Tyrant's Tomb

“Wait,” I whispered to Lavinia, her words sinking in. “Your dad is Sergei
Asimov? The dancer? The—” I stopped myself before I could say The
smoking-hot Russian ballet star, but judging from Lavinia’s eye roll, she
knew what I was thinking.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Stop trying to change the subject. Are you going
to dish on—?”
“Lavinia Asimov!” Reyna called from the rostrum. “Did you have
something to say?”
All eyes turned toward us. A few legionnaires smirked, as if this was not
the first time Lavinia had been called out during a senate meeting.
Lavinia glanced from side to side, then pointed to herself as if unsure
which of the many Lavinia Asimovs Reyna might be addressing. “No,
ma’am. I’m good.”
Reyna did not look amused by being called ma’am. “I notice you’re
chewing gum as well. Did you bring enough for the whole senate?”
“Er, I mean…” Lavinia pulled multiple packs of gum from her pockets.
She scanned the crowd, doing a quick guesstimate. “Maybe?”
Reyna glanced heavenward, as if asking the gods, Why do I have to be
the only adult in the room?
“I’ll assume,” the praetor said, “that you were just trying to draw
attention to the guest seated next to you, who has important information to
share. Lester Papadopoulos, rise and address the senate!”