36. Viviana

Mikhail knows.

One look at him as I entered the dining room and I could tell he knew what just happened with Anatoly. He knew I was locked in a closet. He knew I freaked out.

Now, we're thirty minutes into dinner and I'm positive.

What I'm not sure of is how exactly he knows. I haven't seen him touch his phone since Dante and I sat down to dinner. I also haven't seen Anatoly—or anyone else, for that matter.

And yet, Mikhail knows.

He slides my water glass towards me for the third time in half an hour. "Take a drink."

"I'm fine."

"Your voice is almost gone. Drink."

My voice is raspy and tomorrow, it will definitely be gone. But for now, I just sound like I smoke a casual four or five packs per day. Perfectly normal.

I take a sip to appease him, offering a thin-lipped smile once I'm done. "How's that?"

His eyes answer for him, trailing over my face with practiced patience. He's taking inventory. I'm sure he can see my red, puffy eyes.

Mikhail Novikov doesn't miss a thing.

Next to me, Dante grabs another breadstick and tears off a bite. "This is the best day ever."

Only a five-year-old could have an existential crisis about never seeing his friends again and then, twelve hours later, claim it's the best day ever because he gets to eat spaghetti and meatballs.

"You like it?" Mikhail asks.

"Uh-huh," Dante confirms, his mouth shoved full of garlic breadsticks. "Mama bought me this for my birthday last year. It's my favorite."

"Is it really?" Mikhail looks smug and not at all surprised. There's no way on earth he didn't realize he was ordering from mine and Dante's favorite Italian restaurant. Mostly because there's no other reason he would be eating an overly-salted, previously-frozen breadstick.

"I don't even want to know how you found out about this place," I tell him. "Though I think you should do the world a favor and set your spies on more important missions."

"I'd rather make sure you and Dante have everything you could ever want here."

Mikhail doesn't even look at me as he drops this bomb. That's what this calm affection feels like—a nuclear bomb meant to lay waste to the anger and resentment I've been harboring since the moment I opened my apartment door and found Mikhail standing on the landing.

I'm supposed to forget what happened this morning because he came home with three different types of carbs? The life I imagined for my son is worth a lot more than the two-for-one meal deal at Antonio's.

Mikhail will have to try a lot harder than that.

"A boy cannot live on cheap Italian food alone," I mutter.

As yet another sign that Mikhail is trying to make peace, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he drops another breadstick on my plate.

We circle around Dante for the rest of the night without ever talking to each other. It's surprisingly easy because Dante is proactive about filling silences. Before I can even worry that he's too absorbed in coloring to make conversation and I'll finally have to figure out something to say to Mikhail, Dante snaps his head up and asks if I'd rather swim in a pool full of ice cream or Skittles.

"Can you both put me to bed?" Dante pleads, hands folded behind the back of his skateboarding dinosaur pajamas.

Mikhail is already halfway out the door, but he backtracks and kneels down by Dante's bed without any hesitation. "Sure, kid. What book do you want to read?"

Is this everything I dreamed of for Dante? Sure.

Am I going to let it melt my heart and buckle my knees? Hopefully not.

The problem is that Mikhail is a good reader. His voice is deep, so his grumbly impression of a bear makes Dante giggle. Then, as we're leaving the room, he holds out his fist for a fist bump.

"If you want to be brave, you have to be…"

"Scared!" Dante pounds his fist with a grin.

"And when you're scared, you have to be…"

"Brave!"

They fist bump again and Mikhail ruffles his hair. "Goodnight, malysh."

Mikhail steps into the hall, but I linger by Dante's bedside, hoping Mikhail will be gone by the time I come out.

"I love you, bud." I kiss Dante's forehead. "If you need anything, I'm right across the hall, okay? I'm always there for you."

"And Mikhail, too? He's here for me?"

My heart tries to thaw, but I resist. "Yep. Mikhail, too."

Dante snuggles up under his blanket and I blow him a kiss before I pull the door closed.

"He was in a good mood tonight." Mikhail is leaning against the wall a few feet away, but he might as well be whispering in my ear. A shiver works down my spine and I fight hard to repress it.

"Probably because you loaded him up with spaghetti and breadsticks. It's hard to be sad when you're jacked up on garlic butter." I spin away from him, heading for my door. This conversation is over, as far as I'm concerned.

"That makes your bad mood even more impressive."

I have every intention of walking into my bedroom and locking the door, but I find myself turning to face him.

Mikhail is right behind me now, closer than I thought. I have to take a step back to avoid running into his chest.

"Where there's a controlling, lying asshole, there's a way."

"This is about this morning." It isn't a question; he already knows the answer.

"This morning. Yesterday. Last week," I list off. "This is about every single second I've spent with you since the moment we met six years ago."

"I distinctly remember you being in a very good mood during some of those seconds." He leans closer, the mint and cedar scent of him drawing me in even though I should be flinging myself in the other direction. His blue eyes scrape over my face. "Why were you crying?"

I blink.

Oh, yeah. This way madness lies, for sure.

I back against my door, fumbling for the doorknob. "Do you get some kind of pleasure out of emotionally confusing the people around you? Because you're losing me with the subject changes."

I finally get the door open and try to slip inside, but Mikhail wedges himself in the doorway. "Talk to me."

"I don't want to."

"I didn't ask if you wanted to," he growls, his patience slipping away.

I snort. "Which is exactly why I don't want to! You saved me from Trofim so I could get away from this world, but you didn't give me a choice when you dragged me back. Now, you're not giving me a choice in how I raise my son. So, no, I don't want to talk to you."

"I saved you from Trofim because it was a convenient pitstop on the way to taking over the Bratva."

"Right," I groan. "You never cared about me. You would have let me rot with Trofim if it hadn't been convenient for you to do otherwise. God forbid I think you cared about me for even a second. You've made all that perfectly fucking clear, Mikhail. What isn't clear is why you suddenly think you know what is best for my son despite having only met him two weeks ago."

"The only reason I don't know him is because?—"

"Because of me," I finish. "I know! God, Mikhail, I fucking—I know, okay? I know I kept him from you and that was wrong, but it doesn't change the fact that I have five more years of experience than you in raising a kid. I know what is good for Dante."

Mikhail closes my bedroom door and looms over me, his square jaw clenched. "If you knew what was good for him, you never would have kept him from me in the first place."

"Which is why I'm not going anywhere!" I throw my arms wide, gesturing to my new bedroom. I blow out a breath, suddenly exhausted. "I can see that you're good for Dante, whether I like it or not. It's why I'm not grabbing him and fleeing into the night."

"You asked to leave."

"Exactly," I point out. "I asked. I could have tried to escape, but I asked you instead."

Mikhail doesn't give anything away. He's watching me, assessing every word out of my mouth. Somehow, this moment feels more exposing than any we've ever had.

"I want you in his life, Mikhail. I just… I want other people in his life, too. Friends, teachers, teammates. Dante is an extrovert. He makes friends everywhere he goes and likes playing with other kids. If we keep him locked up here, he'll grow to hate it."

Mikhail takes a deep breath. "I want him to have the best education money can buy. He wasn't getting that at his other school."

"I know. He can count to sixty-seven now." Just like that, the bubble of tension pops and I can't find the energy to stand anymore. Panic attacks always leave me exhausted. I walk backwards to the bed and sink down on the edge of the mattress.

"I want us to make choices together. When it comes to Dante, I want us to be equals." It's a longshot, I know, but I can't help but ask.

Mikhail sits next to me on the bed. The mattress sinks under his weight and I shift towards him without meaning to. Our thighs brush and electricity sizzles under my skin.

Down, girl. That is not why we're here.

Mikhail seems perfectly in control of himself, which just fucking figures. "I don't do ‘equals.' I don't think I've ever seen it done before. Not in the Bratva."

"Me either. My parents weren't equals. At all," I admit. "Every decision my mom ever made was wrong, according to my father. He yelled at her for every little thing. Even things she couldn't control."

"Like?"

Mikhail doesn't deserve any explanations from me, but I can't stop myself. There's so much I can't tell him. But I can share this.

"Attention from other men. She was beautiful and men paid attention to her. She couldn't help it."

"You must look like her," Mikhail murmurs, almost softly enough I don't hear it.

I pretend I don't and keep going. "My father hated it and he'd scream until she was crying on the floor. I think he was worried she'd see how many options she had and leave him. I still think she would have if she hadn't died."

"How did it happen?"

"Heart attack." The rest of the story sits on the tip of my tongue. I almost swallow it down, the way I have most of my life. But this time, I let it fly. "Supposedly. If you ask me, my father poisoned her."

"And you still let him marry you off to Trofim."

I turn to him. "You know I didn't have a choice."

Our eyes meet and hold. Something passes between us that makes my heart race and my stomach flip. "I know enough about you to know you can be very persuasive. You have a way of getting what you want—a way of changing people's minds."

He has no idea exactly how far I've gone to get what I want.If I'm lucky, he never will.

"Have I changed yours?"

He turns away and drags a hand through his golden brown hair. It sticks up and he looks so much like Dante it hurts. "We can try."

"Equals?" I gasp.

He shrugs, a loose agreement. "The reason I went into your bridal suite that night is because I was tired of things being done the way they have always been done. I wanted to make changes, make this world better. Why not give this change a try?"

Because you're supposed to be a cold, heartless bastard. You're supposed to push me away and make me hate you.

My head spins and I physically need to lie down. I curl onto my side, tucking my pillow under my cheek. "Today has been too much for me. I need to sleep."

I close my eyes and when I feel Mikhail stand up, I assume he's leaving.

Then his weight shifts onto the mattress behind me.

"What are you doing?" I snap, rolling over. Exhaustion has left the building. Now, my heart is hammering against my chest.

Mikhail lies down next to me, his strong arms wrapped around a pillow. "You said you wanted to sleep."

"That doesn't explain what you're doing here."

In a blink, his arm is around my waist. He tugs me towards him, smothering me in the delicious warmth of his body. "I've heard you having nightmares every single night since you moved in," he says quietly in my hair. "It's distracting. And it can't be good for you. When's the last time you woke up rested?"

The night he carried me to his bed. The night I fell asleep with his body wrapped around mine.

My throat is sore and my muscles ache. I need a good night's sleep. That's the only reason I sigh and sag against his chest. "The way you smell should count as chemical warfare. No one could resist this."

He chuckles, a soft rumble deep in his chest. I lean in closer until I feel him in my bones. Until I'm breathing at the same pace as Mikhail, my body matching his rhythms like it's done that forever.

I settle down quickly. Within just a few minutes, my limbs are heavy and my thoughts are fluid.

When Mikhail whispers in my ear, I'm not even sure it's real. "If this is war," he breathes, his lips against my forehead, "you might be winning."

Actually, I'm positive: it's not real.

It can't be.