1. Aria #2
“Does it matter?” I meet his eyes, trying to look braver than I feel. “Either way, the answer is no.”
His jaw tightens. “Eight years, Aria. I’ve spent eight years wondering if you were alive or dead. I’ve turned down every woman, every possibility of happiness, because I couldn’t move on. And you won’t even tell me why?”
The pain in his voice is real. I can hear it and see it in the tension around his eyes. Part of me wants to tell him and explain that I saw things that night that made me realize I didn’t know him at all.
But I can’t.
Because if I tell him what I saw, what I heard, he’ll know I’m a liability.
A witness.
And witnesses don’t stay breathing in his world.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, twisting my hands. “But I can’t.”
“Then let’s talk about something else.” He pulls out his phone and swipes through photos. “Let’s talk about the boy.”
Every muscle in my body locks. “What boy?” I ask carefully, trying to sound like he hasn’t just cleaved my world in two.
He holds up the phone. The screen shows a photo of a small, dark-haired child, with gray eyes that look too familiar.
Daniel. My son.
Walking to school with his backpack, completely unaware he’s being photographed.
“His name is Daniel Mitchell,” Maksim says, his voice neutral.
“Seven years old. He goes to Franklin Elementary. His teacher is Mrs. Rodriguez.” He swipes to another photo.
Daniel in the park, feeding pigeons. “He likes to read during recess instead of playing with the other children.” Another swipe.
Daniel on the church steps, eating from a food bank box.
That last photo makes bile rise in my throat. He saw that. He watched my son, hungry and thin, eating donated food—
“I don’t know what you think you,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Don’t insult me by lying.” He steps closer to the counter, and I instinctively back up. “I’ve been watching for five months. I know his schedule. His habits. His favorite books.” He pauses, and his voice drops. “I know he has my eyes.”
“He’s not—” The denial dies on my lips because I can see in his face that he knows. Somehow, he knows.
“Gray eyes,” Maksim continues. “Just like mine. Just like my father’s. He tilts his head when he’s thinking, the same way I do. He has my mother’s nose—small, slightly upturned.” His hand tightens on the phone. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”
“No.” My voice is shaking, fear enveloping me. “His father was—someone else. Someone I met after—”
“Don’t insult me by playing stupid, Ariana.” His voice is ice cold and I flinch. “I’ve spent five months studying that boy. I’ve memorized every detail of his face. The way he walks, the way he stands, the way he chews his thumbnail when he’s nervous. He’s my son, Aria.”
“He’s not.” I’m backing up, and I hate myself for it. “You’re wrong.”
“Then explain the eyes. Explain why he looks exactly like my baby pictures. Explain—” He stops and takes a breath. “Explain why you disappeared three months after we were together, and eight months later, you have a child who is clearly mine.”
“Coincidence,” I say weakly, hating how shitty my response is.
He scoffs. “I don’t believe in coincidence.” He sets the phone on the counter and slides it toward me. “Look at him and tell me he’s not mine.”
I don’t want to look but my eyes betray me, dropping to the screen. Daniel’s face stares back at me—my son, my entire world.
And I can see what Maksim sees.
The gray eyes that are nothing like my dark brown.
The shape of his jaw that’s starting to sharpen as he grows.
The way he stands with his shoulders back, even when he’s scared.
All Maksim. All Sokolov.
“He’s not yours,” I whisper, but the lie sounds hollow even to me.
Maksim’s expression hardens. “Fine. If you won’t tell me the truth, I’ll get it myself.”
He snatches his phone and starts typing. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“What are you doing?” I demand, trying to see what he’s doing.
“Sending a message to my people.” He doesn’t look up. “I’ll have them pick the boy up from school on Monday and take him to a private clinic. I’ll have a DNA sample taken.” He glances at me, his eyes locked on mine. “They’ll be gentle. He won’t even know what’s happening.”
My heart sinks. “No.” The word comes out of me rough and guttural. “No, you can’t—you stay away from him.”
“Then tell me the truth.” He pockets the phone and looks at me with one dark brow raised. “Is he my son?”
I’m shaking so hard I have to grip the counter to stay upright.
Every instinct screams at me to lie and protect Daniel, to keep him away from this man and his world.
But if I lie now, Maksim will follow through. He’ll send his people. They’ll take Daniel, and I won’t be there to protect him.
“You can’t take him,” I say instead, hating that I’m about to beg. “Please. He’s just a child. He doesn’t—”
“Is. He. Mine.” Each word is sharp and precise.
I close my eyes and try to breathe. I try to think of a way out of this that doesn’t end with Daniel in danger.
There isn’t one.
“Yes.” The word feels like swallowing glass. “Yes, he’s yours. Daniel is your son. Are you satisfied?”
Silence falls and it’s heavy and suffocating.
When I open my eyes, Maksim is staring at me with an expression I can’t read. Triumph? Pain? Fury? Maybe all three.
“Why?” His voice is barely a whisper. “Why did you keep him from me?”
“To protect him.” I meet his gaze, even though it terrifies me. “I left to protect him from your world.”
“My world.” He says it slowly, brow furrowing before his gaze sharpens. “You mean the Bratva.”
I don’t answer, but then again I don’t need to.
“You thought I’d hurt him.”
“I thought…” I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “I thought he deserved better than to grow up surrounded by violence and death and—” I pause before the words come out of my mouth.
“By men like me.” His jaw tightens. “You thought he deserved better than his own father.”