They weren’t in the living room.
Ivan’s door was cracked. I peered into the six-inch gap just before launching myself into the space. The sight froze me in place.
There was my little man, curled up against the piled pillows and under the large, muscled wing. Winnie the Pooh was clutched in his chubby fists, and Brady’s face glowed with laughter.
“‘Love is take-ning a few stepps b-a-ck-w-a-rds,’” Ivan read, words broken and accent thick. “‘Maybe ee-ven mow to give way to the hap—happ-i-nesss of the perr-sun you lu-uv.’”
“‘Love is taking a few steps backward,’” Brady corrected. “‘Maybe even more to give way to the happiness of the person you love.’”
Ivan’s gaze pierced the page, jaw tightening as he started to read the next sentence. The fact that Brady had the darn book memorized came as no surprise compared to the revelation that his father struggled over the simplest of words.
He can’t read English.
I knew he texted, but phones had translation apps. It…it all made sense now. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself. Here was the big bad of the underworld, trying and failing to read to his son. A crack formed in my armor. I couldn’t help it. The picture was too beautiful for words.
Ivan struggled through the next sentence and then let out a short sigh. Brady snuggled in closer, helping to turn the page. He pointed at the picture—I knew the one! It was the bear and the balloon.
“Why can’t I float?” he asked.
Like he asked me every time we read this book.
My heart stuttered. I wanted to reach inside, to pluck my baby, and rock him tight.
“Well, I guess because you’re not made of the fluff,” Ivan said, tone serious.
I silently blessed him for not mocking the child’s innocent question.
“Nnooo, silly tatko!” Brady giggled. “Because I would float away from you!”
My hand slid over my mouth to cover the soft gasp. It was my response, the one I used before covering him in kisses.
Ivan smoothed a hand over Brady’s unruly mop. “If you floated away, I would grow wings and catch you.”
Brady’s gaze grew somber. He angled his head up to look at his father. “You would.”
“I would.”
The promise solidified, the pair took another moment before continuing the story. I backed away, one careful step after another. The underworld politics, the dangers of the mob, they paled to this moment.
Heading to the bathroom, I let out the long breath.
I scrubbed my face, letting the icy water ground me. It was madness, thinking this—
That this—
That thisfeltright.
But there was no denying it. Ivan and Brady had a bond. It was something that transcended common sense. Something that I had from nurture, but something Ivan had through nature. Leaving him would only break that bond.
“It’s already too late,” I hissed at my reflection.
Beads of water dripped down my face. They mingled with the rush of the faucet into the drain. I slammed the handle and stopped the onslaught.
Leaving would break my son’s heart. I knew that. That was why I was so desperate in the beginning to leave. But now their bond was forged.
And there was another, forming rapidly from the broken pieces I kept locked up tight.
I rubbed my chest. Leaving Ivan would hurt. Standing here, waiting to go to bed, I knew I couldn’t hide from the truth any longer.
