55. Viviana

I try to ignore the noises coming from the kitchen—shuffling feet, plates rattling together. If Mikhail doesn't want to see me, that's fine. I'm not going to force myself on him again. It didn't exactly go well the last time.

When he got out of the shower a couple nights ago, he walked straight past the bed and out of the room. I haven't seen him since.

So, no, I'm not going to bombard him in the kitchen and start another fight.

But there's no reason I can't peek in and see if it's really him, right? This is my house, too. I'm allowed to walk around freely.

I tiptoe down the hall and ease around the corner. I'll just catch a glimpse of him and then be on my way.

"It's me." Anatoly waves from behind the refrigerator door. "You aren't as sneaky as you think you are."

Hope curdles into disappointment in my chest. "I wasn't trying to be sneaky."

He huffs out a laugh. "Sure. You aren't trying to be sneaky, just like Mikhail isn't trying to avoid you."

I drop down in the closest barstool. "Did he tell you that? Did he say he was trying to avoid me?"

Anatoly pulls out an armful of chef-prepared meals and dumps them on the counter. One of the containers has mold growing up the inside wall. I'm not surprised—I haven't eaten anything but sleeves of salted crackers and obnoxiously sugary cereal in days. And if Mikhail is eating, he isn't doing it here.

"No, he didn't say he was trying to avoid you. That is my point." Anatoly dips his chin, looking at me from under his brows. "You're both liars."

"I'm not a liar."

"Said the liar," Anatoly retorts. "You were sneaking down that hall—with all the grace of a horse in tap shoes, by the way—to catch a secret glimpse of your hubby because you're too afraid to walk into his office and talk to him."

"I'm not afraid," I mumble.

I can still feel Mikhail's hand around my throat. When I close my eyes, I see the fear burning in his. I didn't understand it in the moment, but since I've had days on my own to think about it, I realized something: for a second, Mikhail was just as afraid of himself and what he was capable of as I was.

"And Mikhail," Anatoly charges on, ignoring me, "is, once again, burying himself in work and responsibilities to procrastinate dealing with his personal life."

I don't want to ask and give Anatoly the satisfaction of knowing I care, but I can't stop myself. "He's done this before?"

"After Alyona and Anzhelina," he says quietly. "It went on for years, actually… Until he met you."

My heart twinges. I fiddle with the hem of my shirt to hide the fact that my hands are shaking. "Maybe Mikhail just likes work. Maybe this has nothing to do with me and this is just how he is. He's a workaholic. Everything comes second to the Bratva."

Anatoly is quiet for long enough that I look up. He's watching me, looking unusually somber.

"What?"

He breathes softly. "I wasn't born under the same pressure Mikhail was, being a bastard and all. Even as the second-born, a lot was expected of Mikhail—from Iakov and everyone else. Boys picked fights with him growing up just to say they beat up a Novikov. Then there was Trofim… God, he was such an asshole. Still is, I'm sure, wherever the fuck he is." Anatoly blows out a harsh breath and continues. "Mikhail couldn't let his guard down unless he wanted to risk getting hurt. And that was before he had people who depended on him."

"He wanted that," I point out. "He overthrew Trofim so he could run the Bratva. He wanted to?—"

"He wanted to make sure no one had to live under Trofim's thumb," Anatoly corrects. "If you think becoming pakhan was all about power for Mikhail, then you don't know him as well as you think you do."

I could argue with him, but he's right. I know it was about more than that. No matter how upset I am with him right now, Mikhail is a good man with a good heart.

Even if he works hard to make sure no one ever sees it.

"If Mikhail hadn't taken over, I would have left the Bratva," Anatoly admits.

"Really?"

He nods. "There was no good reason for me to stay. Not after Trofim killed my mom. The only reason I stuck around is because I wanted to support Mikhail. Even still, I would have given it all up for the right person."

"For Stella?" I guess.

Anatoly's eyes darken for a second. Then he shakes his head, waving away the question. "All I'm saying is, there are a lot of things more important to Mikhail than the Bratva."

I want to believe Anatoly, I really do. But no matter how hard I try, there's no part of me that can imagine a future where Mikhail isn't running the Bratva. Where death and war aren't constantly intruding on our doorstep.

I knew all of that when we got married—twice. But I thought I was agreeing to face it together. If I'd known I'd be facing it all alone, I'm not sure I would have made the same choice.

Anatoly warms something up for dinner and leaves, but I stay at the island. I sit there for a long time, thinking through everything Anatoly said, everything Mikhail and I have been through. I'm not specifically waiting for Mikhail, but I don't flee to my room when I hear him coming in the front door late.

He walks down the hall towards the kitchen and I hear his steps falter when he sees me at the island. Then: "You should be asleep."

"I can't. Not until we talk." I turn to face him. His beard is longer than I've ever seen it and his hair is sticking up like he's run his hands through it one too many times today. He looks tired and there's probably a better time to do this, but I have no idea when that would be. I'm not sure it would ever come. Now is all I've got.

His jaw clicks. "About what?"

"About where you've been."

"You know where I've been," he says wearily. "I've been scouring this city for any sign of your father or Christos Drakos. They stole from me and they've threatened the Bratva. I have to respond."

"I heard about that."

Anatoly filled me in last night on the lost weapons and the financial fallout. The war is ramping up.

"Then why even ask?" He drops his keys in a bowl in the center of the island. The noise shatters the quiet and I realize how quiet it has been for days.

"I know where you've been, but I want to talk about it," I clarify. "I want to talk about the fact that you haven't been here."

His hand curls into a fist. He slides it off the counter, hiding it at his side. "Staying here doesn't keep you safe."

"What if I don't want to be safe?"

He frowns, and I realize I'm not even mad at Mikhail anymore. I'm just tired.

"I don't think ‘safe' is my biggest priority," I explain softly. "I'd rather have you. I want my son to be here with me. I want our children to know—really know—their father."

Because, wow, what a father he would be. Without all of the noise and pressure and threats of violence, Mikhail could really sweep up this whole fatherhood thing. He'd blow every male figurehead I've seen up close and personal out of the water without even trying. Our kids could be so, so lucky, and I want that for them. More than anything.

Mikhail is looking right at me, but he's never felt further away. The week we spent in the cabin feels like another life. The version of Mikhail that taught Dante to fish and cooked us all dinner feels like another person. My stomach churns. I feel the loss of what could be like a physical, ripping ache deep inside of me.

He takes a breath. "I want our children to survive. That's my priority."

I want to argue with him, but I don't know how. Mikhail cares about this family as much as I do, but we care about it in different ways. We want different things. And I have no idea how to make that work anymore.

"You should be asleep," he says again, dragging a hand over his jaw. "You take care of yourself and the baby; I'll deal with everything else."

Before I can even begin to figure out what to say to that, his phone rings.

Somewhere deeper in the house, another phone rings at the same time.

Mikhail frowns, hesitating for only a second before he answers it. "Hello?"

I hear an echo of this conversation happening in the other room. Anatoly's on the phone, too. It's a coincidence. They both got a phone call at the same time, that's it. Everything is fine.

I believe my own lies until Mikhail's face goes completely white. He lowers the phone slowly like he can't physically hold it up anymore.

"What's wrong?" I ask as footsteps thunder through the house behind me.

Anatoly whips into the kitchen, breathing heavily. "Mikhail."

I look from Anatoly to my husband, lost as something unspoken passes between them.

"What is it?" I demand. "What's happening?"

Anatoly opens his mouth to respond, but Mikhail beats him to it. "It's Dante," he breathes, our son's name catching in his throat. "He's missing."