Lettie notices me stiffen. She follows my gaze, her brows knitting. “What is it?”
I force my voice to sound casual, though it comes out thinner than I’d like. “Nothing. Just thought I heard something.”
She glances around again. Her protective streak is never far below the surface, especially when it comes to Leo.
I shake my head, trying to chase the paranoia away, or at least keep it hidden. “Let’s get going. It’s getting late.”
Leo, oblivious, is tugging on my sleeve. “Can we stop for ice cream on the way back?”
I nod, managing a smile for him even as I cast one last glance at the tree line. The shadows feel heavier there, like they’re watching us go.
26
MAKSIM
Seven years.
I can measure them in scars carved across my body, in the sleepless nights and the blood-soaked days when all I had was the war. Seven years of hunting Anton’s shadow, of ripping his loyalists from the earth like weeds that refused to die. Every stronghold burned, every whisper of his name silenced until all that remained were ash and fear.
I told myself it was for vengeance. For justice. For the men who followed me, for the Bratva that Anton tried to hollow out from the inside. And when it was over, when Anton’s loyalists were finally rotting in the ground, I told myself I’d rest. That satisfaction would come. That peace waited for me at the end of the long road I had walked alone.
But there was no peace.
There was only her.
Ivy.
Now—after seven years and a thousand lifetimes—here she is.
The first time I see her again, I almost don’t recognize her.
Not because time has stolen her beauty. No, time has been merciful, even generous, to her beautiful features. If anything, she is more radiant than she ever was in Moscow. It’s the way she moves that stops me dead in my tracks.
There is a softness to her I don’t remember, a lightness in her step, a calm in her expression I never could give her when my world had been suffocating hers.
The years haven’t dimmed her. They’ve sharpened her in my memory, carved every detail into me like a brand I can’t scrape off. Seeing her now is like reopening a wound I told myself had scarred over long ago.
And then I see him, too.
The boy.
He bursts across the grass with uncontainable energy, clambering up the jungle gym like he means to conquer it, sliding down the bar only to run back up again. His laugh rings clear, pure, slicing through the air and sinking into me like an arrow hitting home.
He can’t be more than six. Perhaps seven.
Hair the color of pale gold struck by sunlight, with a darker undertone at the roots. Eyes that move restlessly, always watching. His grin is crooked, defiant, like the world is his for the taking.
He looks like a smaller, freer version of myself.
The moment I found her trail again, Isuspected,but I had no way of confirming until recently. I’m not a man who dealsin hope or guesswork. A few bribes in the right hands, a few networks breached courtesy of Matvey, and her medical records were in my possession.
Blood type. Birth date. Every line inked proof of what my gut already knew.
He’s mine.
My son.
And now, standing at the edge of this park, watching him laugh beneath the careless safety of a bright spring sky, reality crashes through me harder than any bullet ever could.
