Not by me.
Not by anyone.
Not even by the ghost of the woman he buried.
Vanya’s small hand slipped into mine, warm and steady, the single fragment of peace in the whole damned chapel.
“Mom,” he whispered, leaning close, his voice barely audible beneath the rising hymn. “Your hands are shaking.”
I hadn’t even realized. His fingers curled around mine as if trying to anchor me so I wouldn’t float away. I forced a smile—thin, brittle, like glass about to crack.
“Weddings make me emotional, baby.”
He didn’t look convinced. His brows pinched, the same way Dmitri’s used to when he was trying to understand something that didn’t make sense.
“Is it because the music is sad?” Vanya asked, glancing toward the organ. “Or because you know the people?”
A breath hitched in my chest.
Oh, sweetheart... if only you knew.
I brushed my thumb over his knuckles, needing the grounding of his warmth.
“A little bit of both,” I murmured.
He nodded seriously, accepting that answer the way only a child could, though his eyes lingered on me, curious and too perceptive.
The priest raised his arms, and the organ swelled, notes ricocheting against the frescoed walls like a warning.
“Presenting the groom!”
The double doors at the far end creaked open, and Dmitri Volkov stepped into the light.
Time had carved him differently than I remembered.
The sharp, ruthless beauty of his youth remained, etched with the scars of a mind haunted by loss and obsession.
Five years had aged him, hardened him, deepened the shadows in his face.
His cheekbones were sharper now, cut like obsidian, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitched with restrained rage.
The midnight-blue suit was tailored to perfection, hugging every angle of his body, while the white rose in his lapel gleamed like a spotlight in the darkness.
His hair was shorter, flecked with silver, and the hollows beneath his eyes told the story of countless sleepless nights spent wrestling with ghosts—some of them mine.
He looked like a man who had clawed his way out of hell only to find hell had followed him home.
Vanya’s tiny hand squeezed mine. “Mom... who is that, uncle?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing a fragile smile that cut through me like broken glass.
His fingers covered mine, grounding me even as my heart threatened to shatter.
When our eyes met, the resemblance was unbearable. Same storm-grey irises, same thick black lashes, same stubborn frown between the brows. My son. My living son. The miniature echo of a man I had once called mine.
The realization hit me like a hammer: this might be the first and last time Vanya sees his father.
I had brought him here for that single, selfish reason—to plant a seed of memory in him, so one day he could never accuse me of keeping his father away. After today, we would return to Greece, and until Vanya turned eighteen, I would raise him alone, far from this world of blood, crowns, and debts paid in pain.
