Her hands grip the iron bars so tight her knuckles shine white. Two guards hold her back from the fence, but she's not giving up.
Her eyes lock onto mine. "Please," she says, voice breaking. "Please help me. I know my son is here."
"I'm Elle Ivanov. This is my home. Who are you?"
"Natalia." She swallows hard. "Natalia Petrova. My son, Damon, he's here. I know he is."
"There's no Damon here," I say gently, careful not to let Pasha's real name slip. "You have the wrong house."
"No!" She shakes the gate hard enough to rattle the locks. "Isaw the father in the newspaper. A charity event last month. The paper said he has a son. That's my son!"
The guards tense, hands moving to weapons.
"That's not his name," I correct.
"Damon," she insists, eyes feverish. "Eight years old. Born May 17th. I left him..." Her voice catches. "I left him with his father. Outside his apartment. There was a blue blanket with stars. A diaper bag. A note."
My blood runs cold. Every detail matches what Nikolai told me. The date. The car seat. The note with no name.
"That's impossible," I whisper.
"I was nineteen," she continues, words tumbling. "I couldn't... I wasn't..." She takes a shuddering breath.
A guard leans toward me. "Mrs. Ivanov, we should go."
I ignore him. Step closer to the gate, close enough to see the gold flecks in Natalia's brown eyes. Eyes that suddenly seem familiar.
"Please," she says. "Just let me see him. Let me explain. Let me tell him I never stopped loving him."
Something in her words sends me reeling. I think of what I might be taking away from Pasha if I don't listen. I think of my own mother, who never once said she loved me.
I stare at her.
Her eyes are locked on me like I'm the gatekeeper to her entire past.
I turn to the guards. "Open it."
They freeze. "Mrs. Ivanov..."
"I want to hear what she has to say. And if she gets even one inch out of line, you can shoot her in the leg or something."
Her eyes widen in panic. But the guards relent.
The gate buzzes. Swings open slow. And the woman steps forward.
16
ELLE
Iguide Natalia through the front door like I'm leading a bomb into our sitting room, and the one I choose is far too pretty for the conversation we're about to have.
I sit across from her. Arms folded. Spine straight. Knees locked like my entire body is a fortress.
The guards flank us with hands on their weapons, ready to ventilate her if she so much as sneezes wrong.
Natalia looks around like she might cry again. I'm nice enough to let her in, but not that fucking nice. The guards need to go, though. Not because I care about scaring Natalia, but because I care about the kid I've asked to be kept away.
"Leave us," I say. "Make sure what I said is done."
