2. Maksim
MAKSIM
I watch Aria disappear up the narrow staircase, her small frame swallowed by the shadows, and allow myself one moment of pure, unfiltered fury.
Eight years.
Eight fucking years she’s been hiding my son from me.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles cracking. The cheap linoleum under my boots is scuffed and peeling.
The walls need paint.
The whole building reeks of poverty and smells like shit. Like mildew and something sour I can’t identify.
This is where she’s been raising my child. This shithole with its flickering lights and warped floors.
I pull out my phone and scroll through the surveillance photos again, even though I have them memorized. Every single one is burned into my brain.
Eviction notices taped to their door. Three of them over the past two years.
Overdue bills stuffed in the mailbox.
Food bank visits every Tuesday and Thursday.
Aria waiting in line with Daniel, both of them pretending not to notice the other people staring.
My son wearing a winter coat two sizes too small, the cuffs riding up to expose his wrists to the cold.
My son eating a half-frozen burrito on the church steps because there was nothing at home.
My son who should have had everything—the best schools, the best clothes, the best fucking life money could buy—wearing shoes with holes in them and going to bed hungry.
The rage is a living thing in my chest, clawing at my ribs, demanding release.
I want to destroy this place.
I want to grab Aria and shake her until she understands what she’s done.
I want to make her feel even a fraction of the pain I’ve felt for eight years.
But I don’t. Because upstairs, my son is sleeping, and I won’t be the monster that wakes him with violence.
Not yet.
I force myself to breathe. To count. To do the mental exercises my mother taught me when I was young and my temper ran hot.
Control is power, she used to say. A man who cannot master himself cannot master anything.
So I master myself. Barely.
The minutes crawl by. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes have passed. Then twenty. I’m about to go upstairs myself when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Aria appears first.
She looks even worse in the better light of the gallery—thinner than I remember, with dark circles under her eyes that makeup can’t quite hide.
Her skin is pale, almost translucent, and there’s a hollowness to her cheeks that wasn’t there before.
Eight years ago, she was vibrant. Full of life and laughter and passion that lit her up from the inside.
She wore bright colors and danced in the gallery when she thought no one was watching.
Her hair was glossy and thick, always smelling like jasmine shampoo.
Her eyes sparkled when she talked about art and how light could transform a painting.
This woman in front of me is a shadow. A ghost wearing Aria’s face.
Her hair is still long and the same color, but it’s dull now.
Lifeless.
It’s pulled back in a messy braid that looks like she did it without looking in a mirror.
She’s wearing jeans that hang loose on her frame and a sweater that’s been mended at the elbows.
No makeup. Bitten nails. Chapped lips.
She looks like she’s been surviving, not living.
Good. Maybe she should know what it feels like to suffer.
Then I see the boy, and every thought in my head evaporates.
He’s in her arms, head tucked against her shoulder, still half-asleep. He’s small.
So fucking small it makes my chest twist painfully.
His legs dangle, skinny limbs in worn pajama pants that are too short. His feet are clad in thin socks.
They should be warm in slippers but aren’t.
Aria’s carrying him like he weighs nothing, and he probably doesn’t. My investigators told me he’s underweight for his age.
Twenty-third percentile.
My son is smaller than seventy-seven percent of children his age because he hasn’t been eating enough.
Because Aria couldn’t provide for him.
Because she chose this over letting me be his father.
She shifts him in her arms, and his head turns. I see his face for the first time in person and my breath catches.
It’s like looking at old photographs of Nikolai and me as children.
The same bone structure—high Slavic cheekbones, strong brow, sharp jawline that will become more pronounced as he grows.
His nose is small now, delicate like Aria’s, but I can see the shape of my mother’s nose there.
The slightly upturned tip.
The narrow bridge.
And his eyes.
Even drowsy and confused, those eyes are unmistakably Sokolov gray.
The exact shade Nikolai and I inherited from our father.
Lighter than steel, darker than silver, with that same intense quality that makes people uncomfortable.
My son looks at me with my own eyes, and I feel my breathing hitch as an overwhelming feeling courses through me.
He’s beautiful. Perfect. Mine.
And he’s scared.
I can see it in the way he shrinks against Aria and his small hand fists in her sweater.
His eyes go wide and wary, tracking my every movement like a prey animal watching a predator.
My son is afraid of me.
Because of her and the choices she made.
She’s probably filled his head with lies about me and what I’ll do to them.
The rage surges again, hot and vicious, but I force it down. Not now. Not in front of the boy.
“Is this everything?” I ask Aria, gesturing to the duffel bag slung over her shoulder. It looks ancient, the zipper half-broken and patches sewn over thin canvas holes.
“Yes.” Her voice is tight and defensive. She’s repositioned Daniel so he’s facing away from me, like she can shield him with her body.
As if I’m the threat here.
Like she wasn’t the one who stole seven years of my son’s life from me.
“Let’s go.” I head for the door, expecting them to follow.
They don’t.
I turn back. Aria is standing frozen by the stairs, Daniel still in her arms. Her face is pale, her eyes too bright. On the edge of panic.
“I need to lock up,” she says. “The gallery—”
“Leave it.” I don’t have patience for this. “You won’t be coming back.”
She blanches. “But Mrs. Li below us, she depends on—”
“I said leave it.” My voice comes out harsher than I intended. Daniel flinches, and I see Aria’s arms protectively tighten around him, like I’m going to hurt him.
I take a breath and soften my tone. “Someone will handle it. Give me the key.”
She hesitates then awkwardly juggles Daniel to fish the key out of her pocket.
Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely get it out. I don’t take the key from her.
Instead, I wait until she sets it on the counter.
“Let’s go,” I say again, and this time she follows.
The SUV is parked three blocks away, exactly where I left it.
Black tinted windows and license plates that won’t trace back to anything. My driver, Len, is behind the wheel, but I wave him off when he starts to get out.
I open the back door myself.
The interior is luxurious with heated leather seats and enough space for six people.
A small refrigerator built into the console is filled with drinks.
The contrast between this and the shithole apartment they’ve been living in is obscene.
Aria stands on the sidewalk, still holding Daniel. The boy is more awake now, gray eyes taking everything in. He looks at the SUV like he’s never seen anything so nice.
He probably hasn’t.
“Get in,” I order Aria.
She doesn’t move. “Where are we going?” she asks warily.
“I already told you. Home.” I gesture to the open door. “Now get in before I lose my patience.”
She climbs in awkwardly, trying to manage Daniel and the duffel bag. I take the bag from her—it weighs almost nothing—and toss it in the back. Then I wait until she’s settled with Daniel on her lap before closing the door.
I take the front passenger seat, giving them space.
I’m not an idiot.
The boy is already scared.
Sitting next to them will only make it worse.
Len pulls into traffic without a word.
He knows where we’re going.
He’s made this drive a dozen times in the last month, preparing the house for their arrival.
I watch them in the rearview mirror.
Aria has her arms wrapped around Daniel, her cheek pressed to the top of his head. She’s whispering something I can’t hear.
Probably lies.
Probably telling him I’m dangerous, and that she’ll find a way to escape.
She won’t. I’ve made sure of that.
Daniel shifts in her lap, and I get a better look at him.
He’s wearing clothes that are too small.
Pajama pants that end mid-calf, a shirt with a faded cartoon character I don’t recognize.
Aria has layered an un-zipped hoodie over it, but even that is worn thin.
There’s a hole near the left pocket.
His hair is dark like Aria’s, thick and straight.
It needs a cut as it falls into his eyes, and he brushes it back with a gesture that’s pure Nikolai.
That same impatient swipe, like the hair is an annoyance he doesn’t have time for.
Everything about him screams Sokolov.
The bone structure.
The way he holds himself, back straight even though he’s scared. The sharp intelligence in those gray eyes as he takes in every detail of the SUV’s interior.
This is my blood. My son. My brother’s nephew.
And Aria tried to deny it by telling me he belonged to some phantom lover who didn’t exist.
The rage flares again, and I dig my nails into my palms until it passes.
“Mama?” Daniel’s voice is soft and uncertain and my heart clenches because I’ve never heard him speak before. He’s whispering, but I can hear him clearly in the quiet car. “Where are we going?”
“On a trip, baby.” Aria’s voice is falsely cheerful, strained around the edges. “Just for a little while.”
“Who is he?” Daniel’s eyes quickly flick to me in the mirror, then away.
“He’s…” Aria hesitates. I can see her struggling for the lie, and I’m curious to know what the slippery snake will say. “He’s someone I used to know a long time ago.”
Not quite a lie. But not the truth either.
“Is he going to hurt us?” The fear in my son’s voice is a knife to the gut.
“No, sweetheart.” Aria kisses the top of his head and smooths his hair. “No one’s going to hurt you. I promise.”
Another lie. She can’t promise that. She has no power here or control. She’s completely at my mercy, and she knows it.