“I was brave, Mama,” he whispers, his own voice wobbly. “Like Superman.”
“You were. You are. My brave, brave boy.” I pull back, my hands trembling as I cup his face, franticly checking for any mark, any bruise, any hidden hurt. He looks tired—exhausted—but his eyes are bright with the kind of adrenaline only a child can summon.
I press my face into his hair, and I feel his small, sticky hand patting my back. It’s the rhythmic, comforting gesture he’s used since he was a toddler whenever he thinks I’m the one who needs saving.
“It’s okay, Mama,” he whispers into my ear. “Superman came, it’s okay, Superman came and he wasso big?—”
“Superman,” I manage to choke out, pulling back to look at his face, checking him over with both hands, his cheeks, his arms, his hands. “Who is Superman, baby?”
Theo twists in my arms and points.
My gaze lifts over his shoulder.
Razvan is standing at the end of the corridor.
He’s just inside the door, having closed it quietly. He’s watching us. His expression is unreadable, a complex map of shadows and rigid control. He looks from my tear-streaked face to Theo, who turns in my arms to look at the man who brought him home.
“Him!” Theo announces, his voice echoing off the marble. “He came and he was thebiggestand he picked up the bad men and he didn’t even have acapebut I said that’s okay.” He cups his hands around his mouth, leaning in to stage-whisper against my cheek. “I said I won’t tell anyone about the cape, Mama.”
A sound escapes me, a jagged, hysterical noise that is half-laugh and half-sob.The absurdity of it all.Razvan Volkov, the Wrath, the man who burns cities to get what he wants, being outed as a capeless superhero by a boy who doesn’t know he shares his DNA.
I stand up, Theo’s hand in mine, and I face Razvan across the hallway. My heart is doing six things at once, relief, hatred, want, grief, gratitude, and fury all running together until I can’t separate them into anything clean.
“Thank you for bringing my son back.”
Razvan’s jaw works. He gives a single, stiff nod. He looks…lost. It’s the only word for it. The most feared man in Moscow, standing awkwardly in his own foyer, unsure what to do with his hands. He finally shoves them into his pockets.
He looks at Theo.
Theo looks at him.
“Do you live here?” Theo asks, his voice bright with curiosity. “Because it’s very big. Our house is not this big. Our house has a crack in the ceiling in the kitchen and Mama says she’ll fix it but she hasn’t yet.”
“Theo,” I start, a flush of heat rising to my neck.
“It’s a big crack,” Theo tells Razvan seriously. “You could fit your finger in it.”
Razvan opens his mouth. Closes it. His hands come out of his pockets and hang helplessly again. The most feared man in Russia, undone by a crack in a kitchen ceiling in a Budapest apartment he’ll never see.
Something aches in my chest, a sharp, mournful pang for my son, who is trying to make conversation with a man who has already decided to own his mother.
Razvan clears his throat. The sound is rough, slightly too careful. “I’ll have someone look at it,” he says. His voice is wrong—it lacks the edge, the lethal certainty.
Theo nods, satisfied, and leans against my leg.
“Are you Mama’s friend?” he asks, breaking the suffocating tension.
Razvan’s eyes snap to mine. A dark, ironic question in them.Are we, Lena?
“He’s…someone who helped us,” I say, my voice hoarse. I stand straight, wincing as my injured ankle protests, and pull Theo closer to my hip. “We’re going to stay here for a little while. Isn’t that right?”
I direct the last part at Razvan, a challenge of my own.You got what you wanted. You have us. Now tell us where the cage is.
“Yes,” he says, the word clipped. “Your room is ready. Lena, you will stay in the guest wing for now. Theo’s room is being prepared. It will be ready tomorrow.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” I say, steering Theo toward the hallway. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“But I’m not tired! Superman and I have to plan the next mission!”
