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He doesn't lift his head.
I drop to my knees, cupping his cheeks. "You're okay. Everything is okay."
I reach for his shoulder and he screams, yanking backwards. "No!" he sniffles.
"What is it?" I ask anxiously.
He continues to dodge my gaze as he stares at his feet.
"Ruslan, you can talk to me." I gently take his hands. On my knees we're face to face. "Ruslan."
His eyes rise to lock on mine. With a great shudder, his face crumbles and he starts crying—deep choking sobs that seem to be dragged from the depth of his soul. Slowly, he turns away from me, tugs at his shirt, and lifts it up.
There! Pristine and raw, is a new tattoo on his skin.
A black crown on his shoulder.
My mouth goes dry and suddenly I can hear Ulyana as if she’s standing here with me: Tattoos. Every man of the Bratva has some. Some signify their past deeds, terrible or great things they’ve done, and their ranks.
It doesn’t take a genius to know what the crown means.
I'd suspected Yevgeniy planned to kill me, but now I know for sure.
And yet, I’m unable to feel pity for myself, not when this little boy is pale from the horrific trauma his own father has imposed on him.
"Ruslan?" Mom’s voice rises up, trembling, behind us.
"It hurts," he whimpers.
"Oh, my sweet boy," Mom opens her arms and Ruslan falls into them like he belongs there. It's strange to think that, not long ago, I was jealous of him trying to steal her away. But he was never doing that. He's just a boy who never knew what real love was.
Until now, when it might be too late.
Ruslan sobs as my mother pets the back of his head. "You’re okay, malchik," she shushes. “I have you now.”
"Why did Daddy do this?" he cries. "What did I do wrong?"
“Nothing.” God, my heart can't fracture anymore. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why? Why me?"
My mother and I share a look over his head. Her eyebrows crawl higher, her stare more pointed.
Yevgeniy ruins everything he touches! He hurt you, too, Mom. I try to tell her with only my eyes. Remember that? There's no good in that man. Running my hand lightly over Ruslan's back, I take a breath. When I stray too close to his tattooed shoulder he recoils away from my touch.
"Your father...” I start. “Do you understand what he does? What he really does?"
“He never tells me.” Ruslan wrinkles his brow. "He's just says that he’s going to protect me."
I swallow down the hard lump forming in my throat. "He’s a liar. He is the bad man that he’s always warning you about." I take a breath. "He’s a killer. He hurts people"
"He says he only hurts people who want to hurt me," Ruslan argues weakly.
I shake my head. "He hurts anyone he feels like." Without meaning to I look at my mother. She flinches.
Ruslan notices, staring between us. "Did he hurt you, Mom?"
"I—.” Mom starts. But she’s having a hard time saying it.
