Not with her ring back on and that smile on her face.
The fire crackles. A plate of gingerbread cookies sits half-eaten on the coffee table.
And in my hands is my mother’s journal.
One of many Vasilisa found shelved in the back of our home library, my mother’s old library.
She left us so many journals, inside glimpses into her life.
Vasilisa has another open, reading slowly, reverently. Her fingers trace the handwriting like she’s memorizing it.
I flip the page.
And my heart stops.
“Dea,” I breathe.
Nothing else comes out. My chest is too tight.
She immediately curls closer, her head lifting from my shoulder. “What? What did you find?”
I swallow hard and look back at the line, making sure I’m not imagining it.
“I… Dea, sheknewyou.”
Her brows knit in confusion, then she gasps out a surprised little laugh. “Your mother? Santo, what do you mean she knew me?”
I turn the book toward her, tapping the name with my thumb.
“Look. That’s your mother. She names her.Vera Popov.’”
Her breath hitches.
I keep reading, scanning the page. “They were at a meeting. I know this meeting. My father tried for years to form an alliance with the Bratva. Maksim’s father never budged. But your mother was there that day. And you were with her.”
Vasilisa takes the book from my hands, eyes wide and bright as she reads.
“Oh!” she gasps, her fingers flying to her lips. “My mother wasafraid?Nervous, to go to the bathroom?” Her brows knit tighter. “I know my father wasn’t kind, but why…”
Her voice trails off.
And then she sees it.
Her eyes soften. Her lips part.
“She offered to hold me while my mother stepped away.”
I nod, my throat thick.
“She held you, Dea.”
Vasilisa looks up at me, those ocean-blue eyes blinking fast, breath trembling.
“She held me,” she whispers, almost laughing from the shock of it. “Your mama met me.”
I wrap my arm around her and pull her into my chest, pressing a kiss to her hair. My voice is rough, quieter than I intend.
“She knew you,” I murmur. “Before I ever did. She touched you. Protected you for a minute.”
