Chapter Seventeen
Osip
The sounds of the orphanage seem to fade into the background as we head through the foyer; children’s voices, doors opening and closing, the bustle of a building filled with life.
Ilona hasn’t spoken since we arrived. She cradles Slava against her chest, her energy vibrating with an agitation so heavy I can taste it.
Every breath she takes seems to pull the oxygen from my lungs, and she still won’t look at me.
Only the electric charge between us tells me she’s acutely aware of my presence, my every movement.
Concentrate, dolboyob.
Your son needs you focused.
But even as I try to push it down, I feel the heat radiating from her body as we climb the stairs. The way her pulse flutters at her throat. The careful distance she maintains that somehow makes the space between us hum like a live thing.
The questions burn on my tongue.
Why did you leave Budapest?
What were you doing with the Vorobevs?
How long have you been taking care of him?
But none of that matters now. Right now, we’re united by something wordless and desperate: Slava’s safety comes first. Everything else— the history between us, the unanswered questions, the way she makes my chest constrict just by breathing— can wait.
The interior hits me immediately. Children’s artwork covers every available wall surface— crayon drawings of stick-figure families under rainbow skies, construction paper flowers that curl at the edges, handprint turkeys from last Thanksgiving.
The hallway smells like disinfectant trying to mask the deeper scents of too many small bodies in too small a space.
Somewhere deeper in the building, I can hear children’s voices, high and bright, echoing off institutional walls.
This is where I’m leaving my son.
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood.
Ilona’s steps slow as we walk deeper into the building.
I watch her take in the same details I am— the scuffed linoleum, the fluorescent lights that flicker every few seconds, the attempt to make this place feel like home when it’s anything but.
Slava shifts in her arms, making soft baby sounds that seem jarringly innocent in this place.
“We’ve prepared a room on the second floor,” Simpson says, leading us up a narrow staircase. “Quiet, away from the older children. We thought it would be easier for him to adjust.”
The word adjust sits wrong in my mouth. Like my son is a piece of furniture being moved to storage.
“Here we are,” Simpson says, pushing open a door at the end of the hallway.
The room they’ve prepared is small but clean.
A cot with fresh linens sits beneath a window that looks out onto a tiny courtyard where a few older children are playing.
Someone has tried to make it welcoming— there’s a mobile hanging above the cot with colorful animals, and a small basket of toys sits in the corner.
But it’s still institutional. Still temporary. Still not home.
Ilona steps into the room and stops dead. I see it happen— the moment the reality hits her fully. Her shoulders go rigid, and I hear her breath catch. When she turns slightly, I catch a glimpse of her profile, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
She loves him.
The realization shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.
It crashes through me like a freight train, making it hard to breathe.
This woman, who has every reason to hate me, who disappeared from my life without explanation, has been caring for my son with a devotion I haven’t earned the right to witness.
She’s loved him when I couldn’t. When I was drowning in my own misery, too consumed to be the father he deserved.
“The cot is fresh,” Simpson says, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling through the room. “We have a night nurse who checks on the infants every hour, and meals are prepared in our kitchen according to dietary needs. He’ll be perfectly safe here.”
Safe.
The word feels like a lie in this place.
Ilona moves toward the cot with slow, deliberate steps. Each one looks like it’s costing her something vital. Slava has woken up and is looking around with wide, curious gray eyes, taking in the new surroundings. When Ilona reaches the cot, she just stands there for a moment, holding him close.
She doesn’t move to put him down. Just stands there, frozen, her arms tightening around his small body.
I step closer, drawn by something I can’t name. Close enough that I can smell her hair— it’s scented with something clean and floral that cuts through the institutional smell of the room. Close enough that I can see the fine tremor in her hands.
She flinches when I approach, but she doesn’t move away. For a moment, we’re both just standing there, looking down at this little boy who connects us in ways I’m still trying to understand.
Ilona leans down and places Slava gently on the cot. The mattress creaks under his slight weight. He looks up at her, then at me, his expression serious for someone so small. His eyes take in everything with an intelligence that seems impossible for his age.
“Here’s your bear, baby,” she murmurs, tucking a plush toy in beside him. She glances back over her shoulder at Simpson. “It’s his favorite,” she adds. “He doesn’t sleep well if he doesn’t have it.”
“We’ll be sure to keep it with him,” he says with a nod.
“Thank you.” Her voice cracks.
“I-lo-lo,” Slava babbles, reaching up toward her face.
The sound of his voice saying her name breaks something open in my chest. Ilona leans down immediately, her lips brushing against his soft cheek.
“Yes, baby,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she strokes his fine hair. “I’m here.”
Blyad.
Watching them feels like taking a bullet to the gut. This woman has given my son more love in two weeks than I’ve managed in his entire life. She’s been his constant when I was fucking around with God knows what. My feelings? My self-pity?
Fucking pizda.
Wasting time like a pussy.
I move closer, my expensive shoes silent on the thin carpet. Ilona’s entire body goes tense, but I ignore it. I crouch down beside the cot, bringing myself to Slava’s level, close enough that my shoulder almost touches Ilona’s leg.
The air between us is electric, charged with everything we’re not saying. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, can sense her hyperawareness of my proximity. But right now, none of that matters. Right now, there’s only my son, looking up at me with eyes that hold trust I haven’t earned.
“Pa-pa,” Slava babbles, his tiny hand reaching toward me.
I suck in a breath that physically hurts.
My heart doesn’t just skip— it fucking shatters.
This little boy, who barely knows me, who has every reason to be afraid of me, is calling me Papa.
The same word I saw him mouth when I watched the Vorobevs’ car drive away with him, when I thought I might never see him again.
He looks at Ilona next, his expression brightening. “I-lo.”
Papa and Ilo.
His whole world, contained in two simple sounds.
For one perfect, impossible moment, we’re like a family.
The three of us, connected by this tiny person who doesn’t understand the complications of the adult world.
He doesn’t know that his adoptive parents died in a plane crash.
Doesn’t know that Ilona and I have a history painted in shades of passion and betrayal.
Doesn’t know that in any other circumstances, we’d be enemies.
All he knows is that we’re here, and he feels safe.
The moment stretches, fragile as morning frost. I reach out and touch his tiny hand with one finger. His grip is surprisingly strong as he wraps his fist around it. In this sterile room, surrounded by the institutional sounds of an orphanage, we create our own small bubble of peace.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take special care of him until the paperwork is sorted.” Simpson’s voice feels like a violation. “He’ll be just fine. You have my word.”
The spell breaks. Reality crashes back in— harsh lights, the smell of Clorox, the knowledge that I’m about to walk away from my son again.
I lean closer to Slava, my voice dropping low. “I’ll be back for you, Son. I promise. Sooner than you think.”
The words are a vow, carved from desperation and sealed with my blood. I will move heaven and earth to get him out of this place. I will burn down anyone who tries to keep us apart.
I sense Ilona’s eyes on me, and when I glance up, she’s looking at me with something that isn’t hatred for the first time since I found her at the Vorobev house. There’s surprise there, and something else— something that looks almost like hope.
It lasts only a second before she looks away, but it’s enough. For the first time, she’s not looking at me like some kind of monster.
Standing, I place my hand on Simpson’s shoulder. The gesture is friendly, but there’s steel underneath it.
“Thank you for calling me so quickly,” I tell him. “I will not let him be taken from me again.”
He nods, understanding the weight behind those simple words.
As we prepare to leave, Slava lets out a small cry. Not distressed, just awareness that his people are moving away.
“I-lo!”
Ilona freezes, her whole body going rigid with the effort not to turn back. I can see her hands shaking at her sides.
I want to touch her, to offer some kind of comfort, but I know she wouldn’t accept it. Not from me. Not yet.
Instead, I step closer to her, close enough that she can feel my presence without me actually touching her.
“It’s best to keep walking,” Simpson says gently. “If you delay your departure, it will just confuse him more.”
“I-lo!” Slava’s voice grows more strident. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach out, and it tears at my heart.
“I’ll have one of the nurses come in,” Simpson goes on. “Someone to keep him company until he settles.”
“Oh-okay.” Ilona makes a small sobbing sound, and Christ, I don’t know what hurts more, leaving him here, or seeing how it’s affecting her.
“He will be out of here soon,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The promise is for both of us.
She doesn’t respond, but I see her shoulders relax slightly. I don’t know what kind of connection she’s forged with my child, but it’s a strong one, and that feels right to me somehow.
As we walk back down the hallway, past the cheerful children’s artwork and institutional attempts at warmth, I’m already making plans. Phone calls to be made, favors to be called in, wheels to be set in motion. Slava won’t stay in this place longer than absolutely necessary.
Behind us, I can hear him making soft baby sounds, and it takes everything I have not to turn around and go back.
Soon, Son.
Papa’s coming back soon.