Chapter 61
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
AVELINA
At the weekend, I receive a text from Geliy’s mother, saying that she wants to visit the children. I wish I could say no, but Olga is their grandmother, so I arrange an afternoon for her to come to the compound.
Three days later, Olga is sitting on the couch, while Viktor, Babulya, and I sit opposite her.
Leon is in Olga’s lap. “He looks just like Geliy,” she exclaims. Perching primly on the edge of the couch like she’s afraid she might catch something while she’s here, she lifts the teacup I set in front of her, takes a sip, and immediately wrinkles her large nose.
“Another, um, slice of cake?” I say. Her gaze sweeps over the coffee table, landing on the cake I baked this morning. “It’s too dry,” she tuts.
Babulya doesn’t even try to hide her snort. She’s clearly unimpressed by Olga so far.
“Like sawdust,” Olga adds. “I hope this isn’t how you fed my son when he was alive.”
I bite my tongue so hard it almost bleeds, forcing a polite smile that feels more like a grimace.
Her gaze slides to Sofia, who’s on the floor, lining up her stuffed animals with laser precision.
“What on earth is the girl doing?” Olga hisses.
“Sofia likes order. It helps soothe her and makes her feel safe,” I explain yet again. “More tea,” I offer, trying to change the subject.
“No,” she grits out, sniffing in a martyred tone as if the tea also isn’t good enough for her.
Sofia’s little hands start flapping in quick, desperate motions, her favorite stuffed cat clutched to her chest. She’s overwhelmed and reached her limit—too many voices, too many smells, too much everything.
The scent of Olga’s strong perfume and her booming voice are causing Sofia’s anxiety to rise.
I’ve explained this so many times to Olga—how Sofia’s autism means that strong smells and loud voices can overwhelm her and cause her senses to overload.
But each time I’ve talked about this with Olga, she’s been dismissive and accused Sofia of being an attention seeker and me of spoiling my daughter.
I stand to help Sofia and suggest we go to her safe space—the one Viktor built for her—but before I can do anything, Sofia whimpers and rushes off.
Olga’s beady gaze narrows, and her voice rings out, sharp and cold.
“Your daughter is bizarre and strange like this because of the way you have brought her up,” she says, her lip curling as if the very sight of Sofia just now, rocking back and forth on the rug, was a personal offense to her.
“She needs discipline! You are useless as a mother!”
I should be used to this from her, but I freeze, the words hitting harder than I’m prepared for.
They strike me like a slap to the face. But even worse, my heart shatters into tiny pieces for my little girl and the judgment she faces rather than receiving understanding and support from her grandmother.
My throat burns, but no words come. I want to protect my baby.
To stand between her and this judgment. But my voice fails me. Tears creep in, hot and suffocating.
She makes a sound that’s half scoff, half sigh. “In my day, children were taught to behave…not whatever that was.”
“Olga!” Viktor’s voice slices through the room. The air shifts instantly, like a storm rolling in.
Olga startles. “Viktor, I only meant—”
“No!” His tone leaves no room for argument. He steps forward, positioning himself in front of Olga. “You do not speak about Sofia or Avelina in that way.”
“But she—”
“Ever!” he grits out.
The way he wants to protect us makes my chest tighten.
Geliy never stood up for me in front of his mother.
Nor did he ever stand up for his children in front of her.
Yet, this man, a man who isn’t even related to us, is doing that very thing for me and for my little girl. Just like he did in that shoe store.
I finally find my voice, Viktor’s presence giving me strength. “Being different doesn’t mean that Sofia’s not good enough,” I say quietly.
“She’s more than different,” Olga blusters. “She’s odd and peculiar and—”
“Sofia is perfect as she is,” I say firmly. “In every single way. If you can’t see that, the problem is not with her. It’s with you. I think you should leave now. I have other things to be doing with my time—like supporting and caring for my daughter.”
As I start to leave the room, I see Viktor’s gaze pin Olga with quiet fury as he takes Leon from her arms.
Babulya storms over to Olga, eyeballing her as she fishes her favorite wooden spoon out of her apron pocket.
Olga’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. She snatches up her things and dashes toward the door.
And me? I’m too stunned to speak. Too overwhelmed by the fierce love blazing in Viktor’s eyes as he defends us.
The sun is setting, and Viktor doesn’t tell me where we’re going. He just appears in the doorway with his jacket zipped to his throat. “Shoes,” he says, tipping his chin to the closet. “Warm ones.”
We cross the courtyard under the bruised purple sky. The new building sits on the far edge of the compound where the storage shed used to be. It’s the extra gym for the men, and something that holds little interest for me. My eyes widen. “Don’t tell me we’re spending date night at the gym.”
“Incorrect,” he says, his mouth shaping into something I’d dare to call a smile.
Once we’re inside, the lights come on in a soft sweep. Vaulted ceilings, clean white walls, and the faint sharp scent of refrigerant. I hear it before I understand it—the delicate hum of pipes and coolant…and possibility.
I halt in my tracks. “Viktor, what is this?”
On a bench, two bags sit waiting. He unzips the first and turns it toward me.
My skates. The pair I love. The leather gleams, and the blades are newly sharpened. My throat goes tight. I look at the sight before me. The ice is perfect. A sheet of glass under the white lights. No logos or banners like in most rinks. Just endless, unmarked ice.
The sound that leaves me is something small. “You…you built a rink?”
“Yes. It’s for you. And Sofia. And Leon when he gets old enough,” he says simply.
I walk to the rink’s border, my hands shaking. “How…?”
“There was space.”
As I sit on the bench, he kneels to unlace my sneakers. When he slides the first sneaker away, his palm warms my foot through my sock. It’s the gentlest thing I’ve ever felt from a man who can break bones without blinking. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He slides my feet into the skates, tucking the loops and lacing them up.
When I stand, the world tilts in that familiar way.
And then Viktor fiddles with his phone, and music comes on. The music to my Tinkerbell routine.
I step onto the ice and pause. There’s that breath before. The one where you ask the ice to take you…
“Go on,” he urges me.
I push off.
The first glide is silk. My knees, hips, and shoulders fall into alignment. The ice feels fast—the kind that sings. I make a lazy arc and come back toward him, my breath clouding in front of me.
He’s watching me the way he’d watch a sunrise he didn’t think he’d live to see. “How does it feel?”
“It’s the best feeling in the whole world,” I say, laughing. And something inside me that’s been bruised for years lets go of its breath.
Viktor steps to the edge, hesitates, then places one blade onto the ice. The second blade follows.
“What are you doing?” I say in alarm. “You can’t skate…”
“I’ll be fine,” he says quietly. And he moves like a man for whom falling is not an option. His knees are bent, weight tipped forward just right. And when he’s three feet from me, he holds out his hand.
I meet him halfway.
His fingers settle on mine with just enough pressure to say, ‘I have you.’
“But who taught you?” I ask as we start to move.
“Matvey. Badly.”
I laugh. “You’re doing well.”
“Barely passable,” he corrects me, but there’s that almost-smile again.
We find a rhythm, my strides measured to his smaller pushes. The cold licks my cheeks pink. We make a slow lap. He only stumbles once but easily recovers.
We stop near the boards. The ice hums beneath us. “This makes you feel alive?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Being here, on the ice. And with you. Why did you do all this, Viktor?”
He studies me. “You once said skating used to make you feel alive. But that you…lost that feeling. I wanted you to have it back. That feeling and that joy. Queenie helped me. You and your family helped me. And now, I want to help you.’
“And you learned to skate…for me?” I murmur.
He nods as if it’s nothing. But it’s everything.
“And the rink?”
“There was space. I could afford it. It wasn’t difficult.”
But I can see the truth in his eyes. He did this all for me.
“This is how I say it,” he says.
“Say what?”
“That I love you, Avelina.” And there are those words again, and they still make my heart race like an out-of-control express train.
For a second, my knees wobble. And then I smile. “I know, Viktor. And I love you too.”
He tugs gently. “One more lap.”
We glide together, his strides careful beside mine.
And for the first time in years, the ice doesn’t feel like bad memories.
It feels like home.
Not because I’ve returned to it. But because he’s skating with me. Making it ours.
And I know that this moment will live in my mind forever. Not as the night Viktor built me a rink…but as the night he let me see all the ways he loves me without changing a single piece of him.
We head back to the house. It’s an hour until the kids’ bedtime, and after getting myself a drink and snack, I pass the den and see Sofia curled up next to Viktor on the couch, her little legs tucked under her like a kitten.
The room is dark except for the soft glow of the TV screen, and they’re watching her favorite movie, The Lion King.
My eyes drift to Viktor. He’s utterly still, like a statue, his broad shoulders tense beneath his black shirt. His gaze is locked on the screen, unblinking, jaw tight.
They are both wearing their pink kitten slippers, and a smile tugs my lips upward. Seeing them in their matching footwear in the evenings has become so normal now that the soldiers don’t even bat an eyelid.
They must have started the movie from where they left off last night. On the TV, Scar digs his claws into Mufasa’s paws, betrayal dripping from every word as he sneers, “Long live the king.”
And then…he lets go.
Mufasa plummets.
Simba, the poor baby lion cub, screams.
And Viktor—my terrifying, tattooed, stoic Viktor—sucks in a sharp breath like he’s just been punched. His eyes go wide, shimmering wetly in the flickering light of the screen.
My heart twists so hard it hurts.
With his neurodivergence, Viktor struggles with emotions, with reading other people’s expressions, and with knowing what to do when someone else is hurting.
But as Simba softly nudges his father’s lifeless body, begging him to wake up in a small, broken voice, and whimpering as he realizes his dad has been snatched away from him forever, I swear I see something shift inside Viktor.
A single tear slides down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.
But before I can move, Sofia does.
My sweet, brave little girl slips her tiny hand into his. “It’s okay, Viktor,” she whispers, her voice gentle but sure, as she pats the back of his hand. “It’s just a movie. Mufasa’s in the stars now.”
Viktor blinks at her, startled, like he’s not used to anyone reaching for him. Then he closes his massive hand around hers, holding on so carefully, like she’s spun from fragile glass.
I press my fingers to my mouth, watching them together, my chest aching.
This man—this fierce, complicated man—is learning what love feels like, one small moment at a time.
And tonight, he’s not just protecting my daughter.
She’s protecting him and teaching him about love too.
The sun rises over a new day in Vegas, and after many reminders from Sofia, we’re finally visiting the pet shelter in L.A., which is home to the two animals Viktor has sponsored.
As we drive, Sofia sings to Leon in the backseat, inventing a song about ‘Kitty Red’ and ‘Puppy Gerald’ while Leon shrieks with delight, his chubby feet kicking in the air.
Viktor doesn’t even flinch. His hands rest casually on the wheel, massive and steady, like nothing fazes him—not L.A.
traffic, not Sofia’s out-of-tune singing, and not Leon throwing a teething ring at the back of his head.
When we finally pull up outside the shelter, Sofia squeals so loud that Leon startles before bursting into giggles. “We’re here, we’re here!” she announces as if none of us noticed the giant sign reading Welcome to Paw Prints Sanctuary.
Viktor parks, kills the engine, and climbs out of the SUV without a word.
I open my door and grab Leon, but I pause as Viktor pops the trunk. “Did you bring something for Red and Gerald?” I ask, picturing a couple of chew toys or maybe a bag of treats.
He lifts the trunk lid.
And my jaw drops.
It’s…overflowing. Towering stacks of food bags, boxes of toys, leashes, scratching posts, treats and blankets. There’s even a cat tower wedged in there, like some furry skyscraper. “Viktor,” I breathe, half laughing, half stunned. “What’s all this?”
Sofia gasps beside me. “You’re like Santa for animals!”
Viktor shifts awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. The big, scary mafia man suddenly looks like a little boy caught red-handed stealing cookies. “I, uh, brought some things.”
“Some things?” I gesture wildly at the mountain of supplies. “Viktor, you could open a whole store with all this.”
He shrugs, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “It’s not just for Red and Gerald. It’s for all of them… I remember what it was like, living on the streets. Cold. Hungry. Nobody looking out for you. I couldn’t…I didn’t want any of the animals to feel like that.”
My throat tightens as his words punch me straight in the heart. “Oh, Viktor,” I whisper.
Sofia tugs on his sleeve, beaming up at him. “You’re like a superhero for animals,” she says with awe in her voice.
He clears his throat, the tips of his ears turning red. “Don’t tell anyone. Bad for my reputation.”
I giggle. “Right, we’ll keep it secret. You’re not a big softie. And you’re definitely not a Bratva teddy bear with a heart of gold.”
“Exactly,” he agrees with a glower that’s half-hearted at best.
Leon babbles happily, smacking his hands together like he’s applauding.
I stare at Viktor and smile at him. This is a man who terrifies grown men with a single look, but he’s now standing here, blushing because he’s been caught spoiling a group of homeless animals today. My chest aches, full and warm. And I’ve never loved this man more.