53. Viviana

It takes twenty minutes and a king-sized chocolate bar to lure Dante out of Mikhail's closet. I couldn't even blame him—I wanted to crawl in there right along with him, to be honest, claustrophobia be damned.

Now, he's in bed, nibbling on the top of his chocolate bar and looking reproachfully at the two of us like we might snatch him up by the collar and haul him out of the house at any second.

I would never do that.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same for Mikhail.

"You're safe here for tonight," Mikhail tells him. "Nothing will happen to you while I'm with you."

"Then why do I have to leave? Why can't I stay here?"

"Because I can't always be here with you. Sometimes, I have to leave."

Dante flings a hand at me. "Mama is here. She's always here."

Against my will, but the kid does have a point.

Mikhail sighs. "Listen, Dante… I should have found a better way to tell you about your new school. If it helps, I think you'll really like it."

Fat fucking chance.

"It doesn't help," I mutter softly enough that only Mikhail can hear me.

His shoulders stiffen, but he keeps talking. "Let's put a pin in this for today."

Dante wrinkles his nose. "What?"

"It means Mikhail wants to talk about this another day," I explain. "He and I are going to think this over and talk more about it. Nothing is decided, okay?"

It's not a lie. Not really. Mikhail's mind might be made up, but that doesn't mean for a single second that I'm going to let him take my son away from me. Not when I've worked so hard to keep us together.

Dante's lower lip wobbles, but he nods. "Okay, Mama."

Mikhail reads him a book about dragons throwing a taco party and Dante laughs when Mikhail pretends to breathe fire all around his room. But as soon as the book is over, I see the worry crease between my baby boy's brows.

I hate that he is wrapped up in this.

I hate that Mikhail dropped this stress on his shoulders.

I hate that there's nothing I can do to make it better.

By the time I kiss his forehead and step into the hall, whatever malaise settled over me the last two days is gone. I don't want to lie in bed and cry—I want to breathe fire.

Mikhail closes Dante's door and I'm there in an instant, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You're a liar."

He sets his jaw. "Let's do this somewhere else. I don't want Dante to hear."

"Oh, now, you think about Dante? You weren't thinking about him when you announced at dinner that you were planning to ship him off to the middle of nowhere!"

"Russia is hardly the ‘middle of nowhere.'"

"It's not here with me!" I snap. "That's all that matters. Do you understand that he is only five years old? You can't rip him away from his mother!"

Mikhail snatches my finger out of the air and hauls me against his chest. My heart gallops. The smell of him wraps around me and I have to fight the instinct to lean into the warmth of his body.

Despite everything, pressing myself to him like this is the only thing I've thought about the last two days. I want to lay my cheek over his heart and breathe in time with him. I want him to comfort me the way he's always been able to.

Except the man I want to comfort me isn't the man standing in front of me right now. Hell, maybe that man never existed. For all I know, this has all been a trick to get to this moment: Mikhail stealing my son.

Mikhail peers down his nose at me. "If I don't rip him away from you now, someone else will, and in a way that's much more permanent."

I rise onto my toes, ready to fight him tooth and nail. But as our bodies slide together, Mikhail's facade cracks.

His throat bobs. His eyes flicker across my face. For the first time, every thought in his head is plain to see.

He wants me the same way I want him. Probably against his will.

More than that, he doesn't want to send Dante away. I remember what Pyotr said the other night: No one is enjoying themselves right now.

Instead of arguing with him, I go for a gentler approach. I press my palm to his stubbled cheek. "You aren't the same man you were back then, Mikhail."

He stares down at me, unreadable and unrelenting.

"You're different," I continue. "You understand the risks and you've done everything to account for them."

When he understands what I'm saying, he jerks away. "Don't."

He spins around and pushes through my bedroom door. I follow him across the hall. "Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" I ask. "Don't tell you that I trust you to keep us safe?"

"Don't act like you understand anything."

"I'm not Alyona, Mikhail. And Dante isn't?—"

"Don't!" he roars, rounding on me.

I gasp and fall back against the closed door. Mikhail freezes, regret flickering across his face before he can hide it. He drags a hand through his hair and spins away from me.

"If there is something I don't understand, then tell me," I beg. "Fill me in. I'd love to be right there with you making decisions. That's what a marriage is."

He snorts derisively. "This has never been a real marriage."

If I hadn't already spent the last two days sobbing, I'd probably cry. As it is, I'm all dried up.

"No, I guess not," I breathe. "But it could be. If we let ourselves feel what I know we're both feeling, then this could be the realest thing I've ever—" I clear my throat, choking down a sob.

Mikhail is a statue in the middle of the room. His shoulders rise and fall with his breathing, but he doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

I take a step closer and reach for him. My fingers whisper across his shoulder blade. "We'll never be a family if you send him away."

Mikhail jerks to life. He spins to face me, blue eyes wild. "We won't be a family if Dante is dead. He'll be safer in Russia. That's all I want."

"Trofim wasn't safe there," I point out, swallowing down my nerves. "Someone found him."

"This is different."

"I don't see how," I lie.

It's very different. For one, I'd never hurt Dante.

But I lift my chin and meet Mikhail's eyes. I don't let him see the anxiety brewing under the surface.

"We'll talk about this later," he says, stepping around me. "When you're being rational."

"I am being rational! You're the one not being?—"

But the door closes and Mikhail is gone.

Again.

I'm alone in my room.

Again.

I stand there for a few minutes, waiting to make sure Mikhail won't change his mind, turn around, and come back to apologize. The fact that part of me still expects him to is more pathetic than I know what to do with.

So when the hallway stays quiet and the door stays closed, I slide the lock home, pull a duffel bag down from my closet, and start stuffing things inside.

I don't want to leave. I can admit that much to myself. Despite everything that has happened between us, despite the fighting and the lies and the kidnapping—I still want him.

But what I want has never been a factor where Dante is concerned. I have to do what is best for my son, always.

When I finish packing the bag, I tuck it deep under the bed and shove some extra, rolled-up blankets around it for camouflage. I hope I don't need it.

God, I really don't want to need it.

But I've already lost my heart to a man who will never love me back.

I won't lose my son to him, too.