Only this time, I didn’t give her any more chances. And now she’s exactly where she should’ve gone a long time ago.
She’d been running a brothel in Vegas, and her nine-year-old son was living a life no child deserves. My men found him locked in a basement of that brothel. There are images of that basement. A thin mattress on the floor. The boy curled up in its corner. You can see his bones through his skin. There are bruises all over his face and hands. He doesn’t even look like he’s nine.
Abigail’s voice breaks through, followed by the hurried sound of her footsteps. “Oh my God… what is this?”
I look at her. “Ekaterina’s son.”
She covers her mouth, her eyes instantly turning red. I pull her into a hug. She murmurs through sniffles, “Why is he in such a bad condition?”
I rub her back. “How could you ever think she’d be a good mother?”
She pulls away and looks into my eyes. “Where is he?”
I wipe her tears with my thumb. “He’s in the hospital. They found him malnourished, and there are signs of severe trauma.”
She clutches my shirt. “I want to meet him.”
I nod. “We’ll go today.”
Zloban is admitted to our private hospital. I had come here earlier to meet him.
Abigail opens the door to his ward carefully. He looks at her warily from the bed, where he’s sitting and watching something on the TV. She walks inside, holding a box of food she prepared after doing a full six-hour research session on what to make for a malnourished child.
I ask him, “Can we turn off the TV?”
He nods.
Abigail walks to him and sits on the edge of the bed. He watches her with guarded eyes, sometimes flicking glances toward me. She gives him a small, warm smile.
“Hello, Zloban. I’m Abigail.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching her.
She opens the box and looks at him again, smiling. “I made this for you.”
He looks at the food, then back at her. She holds the box out to him. He takes it reluctantly, his gaze shifting between her and me.
He takes a bite of the banana oatmeal pudding and looks up at her.
She asks softly, “Do you like it?”
He nods and takes another bite. Her face lights up with happiness, but then it falters. She lowers her gaze.
“I’m sorry.”
Zloban watches her. She looks back at him, her eyes now glassy with tears. I place a hand on her shoulder.
Her voice breaks. “If I hadn’t refused Alexander when he wanted to keep searching for her, and said she deserved a chance, you wouldn’t be in this condition.” She sobs, “I’m so sorry, dear.”
Zloban keeps watching her silently. He hasn’t spoken a single word. The psychologists working on his treatment say it’s trauma-induced silence.
Later, on the drive back home, she keeps crying. No matter how many times I tell her it’s not her fault, the guilt in her heart won’t lessen. And I don’t blame her. Some things don’t stop hurting just because we know they aren’t our fault.
After reaching home, I make her sit on the couch, wiping her tears once again. I crouch down in front of her and take her face in my hands.
“I’ll provide everything needed to minimize the damage of his past, baby. Please, stop crying.”
She sniffles. “Can we adopt him?”
