This is no longer within my power to control
But it is in yours
My blood runs cold at those words.
Outside the window, the sun starts to peek over the horizon, and it paints a blood-red streak across the sky.
At breakfast,I watch Slava and Alessandro converse in Russian, before he says something to Alessandro that has the boy’s eyes widening in giddiness. But all I feel when I look down at my coffee is the dread that’s been expanding in my stomach ever since Nico’s messages last night.
He still hasn’t responded, and I have the sneaking suspicion that he won’t ever be responding anymore.
For a brief moment, I wonder if it’s possible for him to trace my phone’s location through messages alone.
Alessandro asks to be excused, and Slava sends him on his way. I pick up my coffee and put it to my lips. But I can barely taste it.
“When can we go back to America?” I ask Slava once we’re alone.
He looks at me. “You miss Anthony.”
“Yes,” I lie. “I miss him.”
I need to know that he’s safe.
“I won’t keep you from him for too long,” Slava says gently. “Once I make sure that my son is safe, we will return.”
Then, he walks over, leans down, and kisses me.
The kiss carries apologies and promises and all the weight of everything unspoken. His lips taste like coffee and patience, and I feel myself leaning into him, craving the oblivion of his touch the way a drowning person craves air.
The kiss begins to deepen, and for one perfect, terrible moment I’m not Bella the betrayer or Bella the desperate or Bella the jealous woman.
I’m just Bella, kissing a man who wants to kiss her.
I pull away.
Tenderness threatens to break me open in the worst way possible, and the cruel choice that Nico relayed to me echoes like a curse in my head.
On one hand is Anthony, the last real family member I still have in my life. On the other hand is Alessandro, who represents everything good in Slava’s life.
How can it have all come down to this?
How did I put myself in a position where I have to be the one to decide which child must die?
“We can go back earlier,” Slava says, and I realize that I’ve looked away from him.
My knuckles are white from how tightly I’m gripping the handle of my coffee mug.
“I—”
“No, you don’t have to explain.” He shakes his head. “You haven’t seen him since Don Leo’s yacht. It’s natural for you to be worried about him. We can go tomorrow morning.”
I nod numbly.
“But before we go.” He stands up. “There’s one more thing I’d like to show you.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.” He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “Meet me in the foyer a quarter after one,malyshka.”
