Chapter 30
MAKSIM
Lettie is practically glowing the way she talks about Russia.
So much so that you’d think she’s been dreaming of living there all her life. She chatters about fur coats, and “hot men with accents”, and how she’ll finally get to live out some fantasy novel she’s convinced exists only on Moscow’s streets.
Ivy keeps swatting her ideas down, trying to keep her sister’s expectations realistic, but I see the way her shoulders loosen just a little each time Lettie laughs and expresses how happy she is about coming with us.
Her sister’s enthusiasm, ridiculous as it is, softens her anxiety. And for that, I am grateful.
Their parents, however, are another story.
The announcement doesn’t go over well at all.
No amount of explanations will erase their—rightfully earned—anxiety.
But Lettie’s enthusiasm is hard to curb.
Her joy plants a seed of possibility of this new future looking bright.
Even Ivy, though she doesn’t say it outright, seems steadier with her sister standing firmly at her side.
It takes several days to get everything in order.
I use those days to call in favors, sending word to Moscow about our return. My jet crew, my security detail, my household staff, they all prepare for my and Ivy’s homecoming.
And underneath all of that is my inner circle. They work in the shadows in tandem with the staff, keeping things in check in my absence. In Russia, time cannot stand still. My enemies will be watching, waiting for any sign of weakness. I must arrive with my family at my back or not at all.
Ivy spends her hours tending to smaller things—packing her possessions, settling her affairs, ensuring our son has his favorite things he insists must come along.
It is domestic and ordinary, but for her, I know it feels like the end of something and the beginning of a new journey she is also eager to start.
When the day comes, we arrive at the private hangar, the car’s tires crunching across the tarmac. The jet waits for us, sleek and silver, its nose pointed like an arrow toward the horizon.
Leo presses his nose to the window, squealing. “That’s what we’re going to take?”
“It is,” I confirm, the corners of my mouth ticking up in amusement.
We board quickly, the crew moving around us in efficient silence. Ivy keeps Leo close, her hand firm on his shoulder, as Lettie trails after her, eyes wandering around as she takes it all in. I trail behind them, my thoughts already consumed by what must come next.
Inside, the cabin is polished, leather seats gleaming with mahogany trim. Leo gasps, running in a small circle before Ivy reins him in again. We settle in as the cabin crew prepares for takeoff.
I bide my time, waiting until we are airborne.
Only when the city shrinks beneath us, until the clouds swallow the view, do I rise from my seat and take Ivy’s hand.
“Come.”
She blinks at me, startled. “Where?”
“The back. We need to talk.”
She stiffens but obeys, following me down the narrow aisle into the private bedroom at the rear of the jet. The bed is made, crisp sheets, pillows stacked. A luxury meant for rest, but I did not bring her here for comfort.
“We have to tell him,” I say as soon as the door slips shut behind her.
Her eyes widen. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Her panic sparks like a flint. She backs a step, shaking her head. “Can’t we wait? Just until we get to Russia and get settled.”
My tone leaves no room for argument. “If we wait, he will hear it from someone else. A staff member, one of my men, a careless word. And that will be worse. He deserves the truth—from us. Not whispers, not accidents.”
Her hands twist together. “What if… he rejects you? What if he hates me for not telling him sooner?”
The fear in her voice slices through me. For once, I do not brush it aside.
I pull her into my arms to hold her tightly against my chest. She sags into me, her body slightly shaking from the nerves racking through her system. I don’t blame her for being scared—hell, I am too. But this is something we should’ve done a long time ago. Back when I first re-entered their lives.
Mikhail had derailed a lot of our plans, most of which we’re still in the process of making up.
Including this one.
“He’ll be alright. He already looks at me as a father figure, right?”
She bites her lip, eyes searching mine. “That’s true…”
I squeeze her gently. “Then everything will work out. I have faith.”
Finally, she nods. “Okay. You’re right. Let me go get him.”
When she leaves, the room feels too small. How ironic that I’ve faced enemies with guns to my head and knives held at my throat, yet I’m panicking over telling my own son who he is to me. I have buried men, burned cities, toppled traitors but never once been this terrified.
When Ivy returns with Leo, she pulls the door shut once again.
He glances around the room curiously, his little hand wrapped in hers in a tight hold. As soon as he spots the bed, his entire face falls. “Aw, are you really going to make me nap? Mama, I’m not even tired!”
She turns and squats in front of him, smoothing his hair away from his face. “No, baby. We just wanted to talk to you.”
He blinks. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all,” I say.
She stands again and guides him over to the bed, sitting him down on the edge of it before settling next to him.
I take up his other side, keeping my arm wrapped loosely around his shoulders.
He glances at me, a smile breaking out across his face for a brief moment before turning back to focus on his mother.
“Sweetheart,” she begins carefully, “you remember how you’ve asked about your dad before? And what I told you about him?”
Leo frowns, his small face pinching as he recalls. “You said he was dead.”
I see her flinch beside me. She swallows hard, and when she reaches out to him, it’s with trembling fingers.
She curls her hands around both of his, as if anchoring herself to him, perhaps needing it more than he does.
Her thumbs move in slow, rhythmic circles against the back of his hands before she draws a deep breath and continues.
“I thought he was for a long time. But the truth is… some things happened that made me think that. He had to go away to stay safe. But he wasn’t gone forever.”
Leo’s eyes widen, confusion clouding the soft brown of his gaze. “Wait, what? Where did he go?”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. My voice is steady, but there’s a fragile thread beneath it, stretched taut by years of longing. “Right here, Leo.”
He blinks, turning toward me sharply. “What do you mean?”
I reach out and gently brush a knuckle down the side of his face, tracing the curve of his cheek like I’ve dreamed of doing ever since I found out he existed. “I mean... I am your father, Leo.”
His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. His brow creases so deeply, it looks like he’s trying to solve a riddle he wasn’t prepared for. Then his lips tremble, his eyes fill with tears so sudden and full, it nearly breaks me.
“You’re my dad?” he whispers.
I nod, unable to speak past the burn in my throat. “Yes.”
A heartbeat passes… then he launches himself at me.
His little arms wrap around my neck with such fierce force that I nearly fall backward, catching him just in time to anchor him against my chest. He buries his face in my shoulder and begins to sob—not the soft, whimpering kind, but the unfiltered, soul-deep kind that comes from a place of relief and pure, aching joy.
“I knew it!” he cries. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”
I clutch him tighter, my arms banding around his small frame, terrified he might disappear again if I let go. My hand cups the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and I press a shaking kiss there, against the crown of my son’s head.
The dam breaks. Weeks of never knowing if he’d come back to me alive or dead. That day I truly believed he would be killed right in front of me, and the man taunting me that I’d never get this moment—it all spills out in the form of hot, stinging tears that blur my vision.
I whisper fiercely, voice raw with emotion, “I will never leave you again. Ever. Not for anything. Not for anyone.”
His little hands grab fistfuls of my shirt. “Promise?”
“I promise,” I choke out, pulling back just enough to look at him. His face is blotchy, tears streaking down his cheeks, but there’s a glow in his eyes that steals the air from my lungs.
“Can I call you Dad now?” he asks quietly.
A noise escapes me that’s half a laugh, half a sob. I kiss his forehead, then rest mine against his. “You can call me anything you want, synok. But yes, I would love that.”
I feel Ivy’s hand slide over my back, rubbing in gentle circles. She’s crying too, silent tears that track down her face, but she doesn’t speak.
She just holds on, just like I do.
The three of us stay that way for a long time.
A family finally stitched back together.