“What?” The word comes out sharp, incredulous. My hand tightens around her thigh, fingers pressing firmly into the soft muscle as if I can anchor her in place. “Why in the world would I be angry about us having a child?”
Her throat bobs, her lashes trembling as her gaze flickers down to where I’ve got her pinned under my hand. Her fingers hover over mine, shaking slightly before brushing the backs of my knuckles. She draws in a long, steadying breath, then fixes her gaze out the windshield like she can’t stand to see my face.
“I should’ve pushed harder,” she murmurs. “When I called Sergei. I… He told me you were dead and I just believed him like an idiot. I robbed you of years with Leo by not pushing for more of the truth.”
“You didn’t rob me of anything, Ivy. You kept him safe. That’s all I could ask for.”
A tear slides down her cheek, catching the light before she swipes it away quickly. “I’m scared for him, Maksim. What kind of life will he have if wedogo back to Russia? Being heir to a Bratva legacy… that’s a lot of pressure. A lot to live up to. He’s just a boy.”
Her fear is so raw it slices through me sharper than any blade ever could. And yet, I feel the faintest curl of pride too. In the short time she stayed with me all those years ago, she’d been listening, watching the way men bent their knee to me in loyalty and fear. She understands what being aPakhanmeans. What it would mean for a son born to me.
I let a faint smile tug at my mouth. “He’s only six,Milaya. I’m not ready to groom him just yet. We’ll let him grow without the weight of his future hanging over him until he’s much older. When that time comes, I’ll handle it. When he’sready.Until then… I just want to be his father.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Finally, her hand comes down, tentative but sure, curling around mine. Her fingers are small and warm, a fragile tether binding me to her in a way no oath or crown of power ever could.
“Okay,” she whispers. “I want that too.”
Relief punches through my chest. For the first time in years, something inside me loosens.
When we pull up to the school, she reaches for the door handle and pulls it open. Before she can escape, I catch her wrist gently, my thumb brushing over the soft skin where her pulse is. She looks back at me, brows furrowed, waiting for whatever I’ll say.
I let my actions speak for me, bringing her hand up to my mouth to press kisses along each one of her knuckles.
We step out of the car, the late afternoon air cool against my face. Ivy leads the way toward the school’s glass doors, her shoulders as stiff as a soldier’s. I match her stride, my presence shadowing hers as always. People glance our way, curious, when we enter the building.
Inside, the front office hums with quiet order. A secretary looks up from behind her desk, recognizing Ivy immediately with a warm smile. “Oh, Mrs. Bennett, thank you for coming. Leo’s just resting in the nurse’s room. He’s been asking for you.”
Ivy thanks her and heads down the hall with me. When we reach a door toward the end of it, she stops and pushes it open. The smell of antiseptic fills my nose instantly, making it wrinkle.
A small voice, sleep-rough, mumbles up from one of the beds closest to the window. “Mom?”
My entire body stills.
There he is, my boy. Myson.With hair the color of sunlight and eyes too much like mine to ever deny the resemblance. He sits up on the cot when Ivy enters, his face breaking into a relieved smile. She hurries to his side, brushing her hand across his forehead, murmuring soft things I can’t hear.
Every detail pierces me—the slope of his nose, the way his legs dangle over the edge of the cot, the faint stubborn set of his jawthat mirrors the man I see in the mirror each morning when I wake up.
My chest constricts until I think it might collapse.
Those gray eyes lock on mine. Confusion flickers across his features. He tilts his head, whispering loudly to Ivy, “Who’s that?”
So she breathes out softly, smiling a little. “Leo, this is Maksim. He’s… uh…”
“A friend of your mother’s,” I supply.
Ivy’s eyes widen as she snaps them to me, surprised.
Leo blinks at me.His mouth opens, then closes, as if he doesn’t quite know how to form a thought around the revelation. I take a careful step forward, my voice low, steady, though inside, everything is shaking.
“Hello, Leo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
The three ofus end up at a small shop down the street, one of those family-owned places with pastel-painted walls and hand-lettered menus taped to the glass. I let Leo order whatever he wants—two scoops, rainbow sprinkles, whipped cream, and even one of those bright red cherries on top. He watches the server pile it all together with wide, reverent eyes like this was the most important moment of his week.
We carry our bowls outside to a metal table beneath a striped awning.
Leo digs in immediately, spilling sprinkles across the table as he chatters nonstop, bouncing between stories about his favorite superheroes and showing me the “moves” he’s perfected at recess.
He talks about an art project he’s working on at school, something involving papier-mâché and glitter, and then declares, very seriously, that he wants to be a firefighter when he grows up. Or maybe a cowboy, he isn’t sure yet.
