41. Veronica
41
VERONICA
T he hallway leading to Maxim’s study feels longer than I remember, the air heavy with my hesitation as I grip the divorce papers in my hand.
My footsteps echo against the polished floor, the sound unnervingly loud.
When I reach the study, the door is cracked open, and I can see him sitting there, alone. He’s a shadow in the dim light, vodka glass in his hand.
His head is bowed slightly, his hair a mess like he’s run his fingers through it too many times. It’s the posture of a man at war with himself.
I push the door open without knocking. He glances up, and for a split second, his eyes widen, unguarded.
“Veronica,” he breathes, stunned, his voice rougher than usual. “You came back.”
I shut the door behind me and take a deep breath, my pulse thudding in my ears. “Tying things up before you leave the country?”
“You heard, then.”
“Why are you going?”
“Does it matter? Did you bring the papers?”
I scoff, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Do you think a divorce is all I wanted? That I could just walk away from you, and pretend none of it mattered?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. Finally, he looks away, his hands clasping together tightly on the desk. “You’re right about me. I am a monster.”
“You’re not.” My voice cracks despite my best efforts to sound strong. “You want me to believe you are because it’ll be easier than trying to change. I won’t let you take the easy way out.”
His eyes snap back to mine, and something flickers there—pain, frustration, something deeper. “Want me to burn down the world? I’d do it in a heartbeat. But order me to be a good man? I don’t know if I can. My father’s obsession cost this family dear. I don’t want you to pay the same price he did. What if my obsession gets you hurt? I used you to get Marco, remember.”
I hesitate, gripping the papers tighter. “He’s dead, that’s what matters. I refuse to raise a child surrounded by bloodshed and violence and fear.”
He exhales, leaning forward. “I’ll leave the Bratva.”
The sincerity in his voice takes my breath away, but it also terrifies me. “You’d just walk away from everything? From the life you’ve built?”
He nods slowly. “For you? Yes.”
My heart clenches. “I don’t want you to quit. I just need to know that there won’t be any more deaths because of me.”
His expression darkens, and I see the conflict in him as he leans back again, his hand raking through his hair.
“I can’t promise no more violence, Veronica. But I can promise you this: no more blood on my hands. The Lombardi threat is gone. There’s no reason for any trouble on that scale to ever happen again. Ivan’s on his way to shut down their last surviving operations across the country. It’s over for their empire. For good.”
I feel my resolve wavering, his words pulling at something deep inside me. “And what about being a father? Can you promise me you’ll put our child first?”
He stands, stepping closer until he’s right in front of me, his towering presence intimidating. “Yes,” he says, his voice low.
I search his face, looking for cracks in his armor, any sign that he’s lying to himself or to me. But all I see is sincerity—and love. It’s terrifying in its intensity.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“I never do,” he says, his hand reaching out. His touch is so gentle, it makes my heart ache. “I’m not a good man but I am loyal.”
I swallow hard, the divorce papers still clutched in my hand. Slowly, I lower them to the desk and let them go. “You’re wrong. And you’d better not make me regret this.”
He glances at the papers. “Unsigned.” A faint broken smile curves his lips as he rips them in two. “So you already made your mind up.”
“You helped me make it up just now. You might not be a good man but I reckon you might become one. As long as you watch The Truman Show regularly. It’s the only way.”
He takes me in his arms, his face inches from mine, his expression unreadable but his eyes brimming with vulnerability.
“You make me want to be better,” he says, his voice hesitant, like he’s unsure how the words will land. “For you. For our child. I love you, Veronica.”
The words hit me like a wave, my heart stumbling in my chest. For a moment, I can’t speak, the sheer weight of his confession stealing my breath. “You love me?” My voice wavers, and I hate how unsure I sound.
He nods, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear from my cheek.
More tears come freely, but they’re not from sadness. They’re from relief, from hope, from the overwhelming feeling of finally hearing the words I’ve been waiting for.
“I love you too,” I whisper, smiling through my tears. “But don’t think this gets you off the hook on the baby name debate.”
His lips twitch into a small shy smile. “As long as they’re not Italian, I don’t care what you choose.”
I step back slightly, just enough to grab his hand and pull him toward the couch in the corner of the study.
We sit together, close enough that our knees touch, and I can’t help but laugh as I think about the absurdity of the moment. “Okay, so let’s hear it. What’s your idea of the perfect name for our child?”
He leans back, his arm draping across the back of the couch behind me. “I was thinking something classic. Like Anna. Or Konstantin.”
“Russian classics, huh?” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised?”
“What’s wrong with that?” he asks, his smirk growing. “Anna Karenina is a masterpiece. And Konstantin is a strong name. My dog was called Konstantin.”
“Hold on. You had a dog and you want our kid named after it?”
“Yes, I had a dog and what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. You just don’t seem like the dog type.”
“Wouldn’t mind another one.” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. “Let’s hear your suggestions, then.”
I straighten, pretending to look serious. “Elizabeth. Darcy. Maybe Jane. You know, something from proper classics.”
He groans, but there’s no real annoyance in it. “Elizabeth and Darcy? Are you trying to make our child sound like they stepped out of a BBC miniseries?”
“Better than Raskolnikov,” I shoot back, grinning. “What’s next? Dostoevsky? Tolstoy? Woland?”
“Tolstoy has a nice ring to it,” he says, his smirk widening. “Strong. Memorable.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Our child is not going to be named after a Russian novelist’s last name.”
“Fine,” he says, his tone mock-serious. “We’ll compromise. How about Alexander? Strong, timeless, and works in both Russian and English.”
I pause, considering it. “Alexander’s not bad. But what about Alexandra if it’s a girl?”
“Deal,” he says, his hand finding mine again. “But if we have a second boy, it’s Konstantin.”
“Still trying to sneak that one in, huh?” I tease, squeezing his hand. “I’ll tell you what. We get a dog, you can call it Konstantin.”
The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. “Deal.”