Page 120 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Aleksander turns his head fully now. There is no evasion in him. I resent that. “Yes. He seems happy.”

The answer cuts so cleanly that I almost don’t feel it at first.

Then I do.

I turn toward the window because my face is no longer under my control. My son looks happy. My son is loved. My son has not been waiting in some dark room for me to find him. He has kept living. Grown teeth and lost them. Learned letters. Outgrown shoes. Had fevers. Birthdays. Favorite foods. Bad days. Mornings I never saw.

He looks happy.

Good.

Good.

A horrible, selfish part of me had wanted him to look unfinished without me. I press my knuckles to my mouth and say nothing.

Aleksander does not touch me.

The salvage dealer’s warehouse sits off a narrow road outside Kingston, a converted brick building smelling of old wood, cold metal, and dust. Patrick, the owner, greets us. I touch a scarred walnut console because my body needs something solid, reject a pair of wall lights for being too decorative, and choose nothing.

“You don’t like them,” Aleksander says when Patrick steps away to take a call.

“I like them.”

“No.”

“You brought me here to maintain a cover, not because your apartment needs better lighting.”

“Our apartment does need better lighting.”

“Our apartment?”

His mouth doesn’t move, but something nearly amused passes through his eyes. “You object to the fixtures every time you’re in the hallway.”

I look away before that can become warmth.

Across the room, a gilded mirror leans against a wall, its glass foxed with age. I see myself in it badly: pale face, camel coat, mouth set too hard. A woman pretending to inspect furniture while her son sits in a classroom twelve minutes away.

“What time is it?”

“Two-twenty.”

My stomach turns.

At two-forty, we leave.

The café is on a corner across from the school, the sort of place that sells coffee in ceramic cups. The patio is open, heat lamps glowing over black metal tables. Only three are occupied.

Aleksander chooses a table near the edge, angled toward the street but not directly facing the school. A person looking at us would see a man and a woman sharing coffee after an appointment, not a woman waiting to see whether her heart can survive the shape of a child’s face.

He sits beside me instead of across from me. That matters. Not because I need him near. Because I need him not to be between me and the school.

Aleksander orders green tea without asking. It arrives in a white pot with a chipped lid. Across the street, normal life is happening with obscene indifference. A woman pushes a stroller past the café. A man in a beanie carries a violin case. Two teenage girls cross at the corner, laughing at something on a phone. Cars move slowly through the pickup line. Parents gather near the main entrance with the bored affection of people who have done this a hundred times.

I have done it never.

I have never waited outside a school for my son. Never packed his lunch. Never bought mittens because he lost one. Never watched him run toward me with a backpack bouncing against his spine.

I press my fingers around the cup. Aleksander’s hand rests on the table, not touching me. Available. I stare at it and hate him for understanding the difference.