8. Maksim #2
We have dinner without them in the formal dining room, discussing business and family matters. Nikolai tells stories about our father, and the old days in Brighton Beach. Alexander contributes his own memories. He’s been part of the organization so long he has his own history with the family.
But part of my mind is upstairs with Aria and Daniel, wondering what she’s so afraid of.
After dinner, Nikolai and Alexander leave, and I go to Aria’s suite. She’s putting Daniel to bed, reading him a story. I wait until she’s done, and our son is asleep, before I confront her.
“We need to talk.”
She closes Daniel’s door softly and faces me. “About what?” she asks, her shoulders tight.
“About why you panic every time Alexander is in the house.” I keep my voice low, aware of Daniel sleeping nearby. “You were fine around Nikolai without running away. But Alexander shows up and you go pale. Why?”
Aria’s lips thin. “I already told you. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him.”
“That’s not an answer, Aria. That’s deflection.” I move closer. “What is it about Alexander specifically that terrifies you?”
She wraps her arms around herself. “I just…I get a bad feeling from him.”
“Not this shit again.” My patience is wearing in. “I’m really getting fucking sick of your paranoia.”
“It’s not paranoia,” she snaps, looking irritated, her dark brown eyes narrowed. “It’s—” She stops herself, biting her lip.
“It’s what, Aria? Say it.” I grind out, so fucking frustrated with her. “Give me one concrete reason to distrust Alexander.”
She’s silent, and I can see her struggling with something. Then she asks softly, “How well do you actually know him?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Alexander. How well do you know him? Not as Nikolai’s lieutenant, but as a person.”
I open my mouth to answer and realize I don’t have one. I know Alexander as my brother’s right hand and someone Nikolai trusts more than anything.
But personally? I know almost nothing about him.
“He’s Nikolai’s friend, not mine,” I say finally. “But Nikolai trusts him completely. That should be enough.”
“Should it?” She looks at me with those dark eyes, and there’s something in them that looks like fear. “What if Nikolai is wrong?”
“Nikolai is never wrong about people,” I immediately say, years of loyalty behind them. “And if you have an actual concern then voice it. Otherwise, you need to accept that Alexander will be around.”
She shuts down completely, her face going blank in that way that means she’s retreating somewhere I can’t follow.
I suddenly feel bad, like I’ve pushed her too far. I reach for her. “Aria, I—”
She dodges out of my way. “I’m tired,” she says flatly. “Can you please leave?”
I want to push and demand she tell me what she knows, but I can see it won’t work. She’s locked herself away, and no amount of pressure will get her to open up.
“Fine.” I turn toward the door. “But this conversation isn’t over.”
I leave frustrated, feeling like I’m missing something crucial but having no idea what.
The next afternoon, I take Daniel fishing to give Aria space. And maybe to give myself space to think.
We sit by the estate’s pond with our rods, Daniel practicing his casting while I bait hooks and enjoy the quiet. The July sun is hot on my back, but there’s a gentle breeze rustling through the trees. It’s peaceful; the kind of moment I missed for eight years without knowing I was missing it.
“Maks?” Daniel’s voice breaks the silence. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What was Russia like when you were growing up there?”
I smile, remembering. “Cold. Very cold in the winter. Snow up to here.” I gesture to my waist, smiling wider at Daniel’s shocked exclamations. “My brother and I used to have snowball fights that lasted hours. Our mother would have to drag us inside because we’d forget to come in for dinner.”
“You had snowball fights with Uncle—with Dyadya Kolya?” Daniel sounds amazed, like he can’t imagine the stern man he met yesterday playing in the snow.
“He wasn’t always so serious. When we were young, he used to laugh more.” I cast my line. “Our father was stern, but fair. He expected a lot from us, but he loved us. And our mother was warm and loving. She used to sing to us in Russian, old folk songs her grandmother taught her.”
“What happened to them?” Daniel asks quietly. “Your parents?”
I sigh, thinking back to my parents. Even though it’s been nearly twenty years since they died, I still miss them. “They died before you were born. Our father first, then our mother a few years later. She never really recovered from losing him.”
“Oh.” Daniel frowns. “That’s sad.”
“It is. But they had a good life together. They loved each other very much. And they loved us.”
Daniel is quiet for a moment. “What did they call you? When you were little?”
“My father called me by my full name. He was formal like that. But my mother…” I smile at the memory. “She called me solnyshko. Little sun.”
Daniel mouths the word. “What does it mean?”
“It means ‘my sunshine.’ It’s a term of endearment. Like when your mother calls you ‘sweetheart’ or ‘Danny boy.’”
Daniel repeats it carefully, his pronunciation clumsy. “Sol-nysh-ko.”
“Close. Sol-NYSH-ko. The emphasis is on the middle syllable.”
“Solnyshko.”
“Perfect.” I ruffle his hair. “You’re a natural.”
He grins, pleased with himself. Then his expression turns thoughtful. “Is there a Russian nickname for me?”
“There is. Danya. It’s short for Daniel, but it’s also a common Russian name.”
“Danya.” He tries it out, rolling it around his mouth. “I like it.”
That pleases me. “You can use it if you want,” I tell him. “Or stick with Daniel. Either is fine.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, staring at his fishing line bobbing in the water. “Since I call you Maks, you can call me Danya. Or solnyshko. If you want.”
My throat closes up and I have to look away for a moment to get my emotions under control. It’s such a small thing—permission to use endearments, to call him by a Russian diminutive. But it feels enormous.
It feels like he’s accepting me. Accepting this family. Accepting his place in it.
“I’d like that,” I manage. “Very much, solnyshko.”
He leans against my side, and I put my arm around him. We sit like that for a while, father and son, watching the water and waiting for fish to bite.
This is what I’ve been missing. This is what Aria kept from me for eight years.
And I still don’t know if I can forgive her for it.
But in this moment, with my solnyshko warm against my side and the sun on our faces, I’m willing to try.
That evening, we have dinner together like a real family. I insisted Aria join us in the dining room instead of hiding in her suite, and she agreed with visible reluctance. But once we’re settled, Daniel starts chattering about the fish he almost caught, something shifts.
Aria relaxes slightly and smiles at Daniel’s enthusiasm. She asks him to pass the bread and laughs when he butters it for her without being asked.
I watch them across the table—my son and the mother of my child—and something in my chest loosens.
This is what I want. This domestic scene, this normalcy. The three of us together, sharing a meal, sharing our day. Daniel between us, talking animatedly, his gray eyes bright with happiness.
Aria in a red tank top that brings out the warmth in her skin, her hair tumbling down her back instead of pulled back. She’s actually smiling as Daniel tells her about learning to say “solnyshko.”
“That’s what Grandma called Maks when he was little,” Daniel explains seriously. “And now Maks can call me that too. Or Danya. Because those are my Russian names.”
“Russian names.” Aria’s smile falters slightly, but she holds it. “That’s wonderful, Danny boy.”
“Dyadya Kolya says I need to learn Russian properly so I can talk to the family.” Daniel looks at me. “Can I have lessons?”
“Of course. I’ll arrange it.” I make a mental note to find a tutor. Daniel should know his family’s language.
After dinner, Daniel helps clear the table, carrying his plate to the kitchen with exaggerated care. Aria and I follow with the rest of the dishes, and I find myself acutely aware of her presence.
The kitchen is warm, smelling of the roast chicken we had for dinner and the apple pie cooling on the counter. Soft overhead lights cast everything in a golden glow and Aria is right there, so close I can smell her shampoo. It makes me want to bury my face in her hair.
She’s putting dishes in the sink, and I move to help. Suddenly we’re standing very close together. Her shoulder brushes my arm, and I feel the contact like an electric shock that goes straight through me.
“I’ve got this,” she says quietly, but her voice has that breathless quality it gets when she’s affected by my proximity. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I take the dish from her hands, my fingers brushing hers. The contact is deliberate, and I see her breath catch. “We’re a family. We clean up together.”
She looks up at me, and in the warm kitchen light, she’s so beautiful it physically hurts. Dark eyes wide and vulnerable, lips slightly parted, that delicate face turned up to mine. Her cheeks are flushed—whether from the warmth of the kitchen or from my nearness, I don’t know or care.
I can see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. Her pupils are dilating and her breathing has gone shallow. She’s affected. She wants this as much as I do, even if she won’t admit it.
I should give her space. But I don’t.
Instead, I slowly move closer, giving her time to retreat if she wants to. But she doesn’t. She stays frozen there, her back against the counter and her eyes locked on mine.
I bring my hands up to rest on either side of her, caging her in. I’m not touching her, but I’m close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. If either of us takes a deep breath, we’d be touching.
“Maksim.” My name is barely a whisper. A warning, maybe. Or an invitation. I can’t tell which.