"Some things never change," I tease, keeping my voice light.
For once, he chuckles. "True enough." His hand resumes its slow circles on my skin.
"Go on, wild one."
"I was in my early thirties. Working for Uncle Viktor, but going through a rough patch. Living in Brooklyn, in a shittyapartment with no heat and a mattress on the floor. Staying off the grid after a job went sideways. I drank too much. Fought more. Slept around. Thought it made me untouchable."
I stay quiet and just let him speak, realizing this is one of those rare moments, maybe the only one, where he's opening up to me.
"One day I came home and there he was. Sitting in a car seat outside my door. Six months old and so damn tiny I couldn't help but hate whoever left him out there. Diaper bag. Cheap blanket. A note. Just a couple of lines. Said he was mine. That she couldn't raise him. No phone number. No return address. Not even the baby's name."
I blink. "Must have been a shock."
He nods. "Thought someone was messing with me. Some rival trying to bait me. But the second I picked him up, he looked right at me. And I just... knew."
"I named him Pasha," he says quietly. "After my grandfather. Figured if I was going to keep him, he deserved a name that meant something."
"You never questioned it?"
He shakes his head. "Didn't have to. Same birthmark on our right hip. Clear as day."
I chew the inside of my cheek. "You didn't think about walking away?"
His eyes meet mine. Steady. "Not once."
I study his face. Not to poke holes. Just to see the loyalty, and the weight of that kind of decision, written across it.
"That's kind of incredible," I say quietly.
He doesn't respond right away. Then: "It wasn't heroic. It was survival. I couldn't leave him there, and I sure as hell wasn't equipped to raise a baby. I had no idea what I was doing. I fed him formula from the bodega and tried to figure out how to keep him from crying all night. Almost lost my damn mind."
I can picture it. A younger version of him, worn out, unsure, angry at the world, and yet holding a baby to his chest like that was the one thing that mattered.
"It was Uncle Viktor who showed up when I needed it most," he goes on. "Said I couldn't raise a child in that dump with a target on my back."
I nod. "Because of your job."
"Yeah. I'd been promoted to enforcer by then. Made a lot of enemies. Viktor was worried. He values family above everything. Always has. His wife was the one who helped the most. She used to rock Pasha to sleep when I couldn't stop him crying. Changed him. Fed him. Loved him like he was her own."
"She sounds amazing."
"She was. We miss her."
The quiet that follows is heavier but not bad. Just real.
"And the rest of them?" I ask gently. "Your family?"
He nods. "Everyone pitched in. It wasn't perfect, but it worked. I couldn't have done it alone."
My throat tightens, but I don't cry. I just let myself sink deeper into the comfort of being held by someone who has fought for something bigger than himself.
"I didn't know that," I whisper. "About all of you. What it's really like being part of... all this."
He doesn't say anything, but I know he's listening.
"I used to imagine what it would be like to have that kind of family," I say. "Not the blood kind. The real kind. People who show up. Who don't disappear."
He pulls me in tighter. "You have it now."
