Page 83 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Aleksander says nothing.

“Then Mark died in a car accident. I was pregnant and alone and stupid enough to think the worst thing that could happen already had.”

My voice starts to thin. I stop and force air into my lungs.

“When I gave birth, they told me my son had died. They put his body in my arms.” The baby was wrapped in white. Too small. Too quiet. I counted every finger because there was nothing else left to do.

“I named him after his father. I buried them beside each other. I visited their graves for eight years.”

Aleksander’s hand closes slowly against the edge of his desk.

“The rest you already know.” My voice turns bitter. “On the way to the cathedral, Papa told me the dead baby I held eight years ago wasn’t mine.”

The words still feel impossible.

“He said if I obeyed, I could see my son.”

His face has gone hard in a way that has nothing to do with me. There is no gentle place to put this.

Finally, he says, “I’m sorry, Tamara.”

The truth should make me feel lighter. It doesn’t. It feels like opening my chest and placing the worst part of me on his desk.

Aleksander crosses to the built-in cabinet beside the bookshelves and unlocks the lower drawer. He removes a thin black file, opens it, and takes out a photograph.

“This was taken Tuesday.”

The boy in the photograph is leaving a brick school building beside a dark-haired woman in a navy coat. He holds several sheets of music in one hand. His scarf hangs loose, one end nearly dragging. He is looking up at the woman while making some urgent point, concentration pulling his brows together. Her hand rests lightly against his shoulder.

I stop breathing. He looks like his father. Long legs. Dark curls. An entire face filled with thoughts I have never heard.

“That’s Mark?”

“Yes.”

My thumb touches the edge of the photograph.

“What is he called?”

“Ivan Morozov.”

The name hurts in a way I didn’t expect.

A name someone has used every day of his life. A name he turns toward when called.

“Is he healthy?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know he was adopted?”

“We haven’t confirmed that.”

“The woman?”

“Anna Morozov. She teaches at Hudson Valley Conservatory School.”

“His mother.”