He nods once. "The important parts, at least. You passed." His gaze holds mine a beat too long.
“Surprised?”
There is something about the way he says it, low and controlled, that sends a quiet shiver down my spine, but I lift my chin slightly, refusing to let it show.
“I’m surprised you did it that fast,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “I was expecting at least an hour, not ten minutes.”
A soft sound leaves him, something close to a snort, and it should not be attractive, but somehow it is.
“I have connections,” he says simply. “People who understand urgency.”
Of course he does.
“Now come. Sasha will want to meet you.”
There is a subtle shift in his tone when he says his son’s name, something quieter, softer, and it is enough to make me pause for a split second before nodding.
“Okay.”
He turns, and I follow him down the hallway, up a wide staircase, and into another wing of the house that feels different the moment we step into it, warmer somehow, less like a fortress and more like a home.
Framed photos line the walls, and one in particular catches my attention, a younger Roman standing beside a stunning blondewoman with sharp, elegant features that look like they belong on a runway.
I wonder if she is his ex-wife, but I keep the thought to myself.
Some questions feel dangerous.
Further down the hall, another set of frames draws my eye, this time filled with pictures of a little boy with dark curls and gray eyes that mirror Roman’s, and I know immediately that this must be Sasha.
There are baby photos, toddler pictures, and one larger image of Roman holding the boy, his expression softer than I would have thought possible, like the hard edges of him have been smoothed down just for that moment.
Roman slows when he notices I am no longer directly behind him.
“That is Sasha,” he says, following my gaze. “The woman is his mother. Elena.”
He offers nothing more than that, and something about the finality in his tone tells me not to ask.
We stop in front of a door painted a soft sky blue, and after a single, quiet knock, he opens it and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter first.
“After you.”
I step inside and immediately forget how to breathe.
The room itself is beautiful, perfectly suited for a child, with shelves full of books and toys scattered across a plush rug, but it is the walls that stop me cold.
They are covered, every inch of them, with drawings.
Crayon, pencil, paint.
At the bottom, the artwork is simple, the kind you would expect from a young child, but as my gaze lifts higher, the detail sharpens, the lines becoming more confident, more deliberate.
A cityscape stretches across one wall, unmistakably Chicago, with dark storm clouds looming overhead, and I feel a flicker of disbelief because there is no way a five-year-old should be capable of something like that.
“Sasha?” I call gently, stepping further into the room. “You here, buddy?”
Roman remains behind me, silent and watchful.
“As I said, he is shy. Sashka, come out.”
