"I gave birth," she says, her voice cracking. "A little boy. But my father didn't let me keep him. The second he was born, Boris had him taken. He forced me to sign adoption papers. He told me the boy was lost to the system. He told me if I ever tried to find him, he’d make sure the baby disappeared for good."
"And the man?" I ask, my voice sounding like a rusted gate.
"Boris killed him," she says simply. "He shot him in an alley two weeks after I gave birth. Not to protect me. To clean up the mess."
The silence in the kitchen is absolute, the ticking of the wall clock heavy. I’m frozen as the puzzle pieces finally snap into place—Cancun, her hiding under false names to follow leads, the burner phone.
"I’ve been looking for him," she whispers, a single tear tracking down her pale cheek. "For seven years, Mikhail. Every lead, every scrap of paper, every dollar I could steal from my father’saccounts... I used it to find my son. That’s why I ran from the wedding. I found a lead in Mexico, a clinic record, and I knew if I married you, I’d be locked in a cage I could never escape from. I had to go."
"And the secret meeting?" I ask.
"The person I paid found a record," she says, her hands coming out of her sleeves to grip the edge of the counter. "A transfer sheet. Seven years ago, a child was moved to a private residence in New Jersey. The papers were signed with the initials PB. Petrov Boris. My father has him, Mikhail. He’s been keeping him as a secret insurance policy. He lied to me for seven years."
She takes a step toward me, her face pale, her lips trembling. "Yesterday... Boris called me. He knows I found the record. He knows I’m close. He told me if I don't give him the locations of your new weapon storage by tomorrow night, he’s going to tell you everything. He thinks you'll throw me out. He thinks you'll leave me on the street, used and broken. And he threatened... he threatened my son. He said the next explosion won't be at a factory. It will be wherever he is keeping my son."
She stops, standing raw in front of me, her chest heaving as she waits for the blow. She’s waiting for the rage, expecting me to call her a liar, a traitor, a Petrov whore who brought a bastard’s ghost into my bed. She looks ready to be broken.
My brain vibrates with a shock so intense my fingers tingle. A son. She has a seven-year-old boy who has her eyes, her hair, her blood—kept in the dark by Boris Petrov like leverage.
I think of the silver scar on her stomach. The one I kissed. The one she said was appendicitis.
"The scar," I say, my voice a quiet, flat rasp. "That’s what it’s from?”
Irina swallows hard, her head dipping in a small, miserable nod. "A C-section. I was sixteen. They didn't want to wait for a natural birth. They wanted the baby out so they could move me."
The cruelty of it hits me like a physical blow. Sixteen. They sliced her open, took her baby, and locked her back in a box. And Boris—that miserable snake—has been holding that boy over her head like a whip, using a mother’s heart to bend her to his will. My chest tightens. I’m a Morozov; I’ve seen the worst of what men can do across the globe, but this is a different kind of rot.
"Mikhail," she whispers, her eyes wide with terror as she watches my face. "Say something. Please. If you're going to throw me out, just... do it now."
I look at her. I see the tears, the way she grips my shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. I see the woman who took my seat at a table of wolves and won. The mother who walked through hell for her child. I don't want to burn the world down anymore. I want to burn Boris Petrov.
I close the distance in two strides, my hands framing her face to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Her skin is hot, her breath hitching as she searches my eyes for the disgust she's so sure is coming.
"I’m not throwing you out, Irina," I say, looking directly into her eyes so she knows I mean it.
I’m never letting her go.
"You're... you're not angry?" she gasps, her hands coming up to grip my wrists.
"I’m furious," I growl, my blue eyes flashing with a jagged, wild energy. "But not at you. If there is one thing, I am certain of in this godforsaken world, Irina Petrova... it is that I am going to help you find your son."
She lets out a broken sob, her head falling against my chest. Her body shakes with a relief so powerful it threatens to break her. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her tight as I rest my chin on her head.
"But I also need time to think," I murmur, my hand stroking her soft hair. “This is… it’s a lot.”
"Mikhail..."
"Shh," I say, squeezing her tighter. "I've got you. We’re going to find him, Irina. I promise you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MIKHAIL
I leave the estate before the sun can fully burn through the morning fog.
Irina was still asleep when I pulled the duvet over her shoulders, her face soft against the dark pillow, her breathing deep and even for the first time in days. I stood by the bed for a long minute, just watching her, my hands shoved deep into my pockets to keep from reaching down and waking her up again. She looked so small in my black t-shirt, the fabric swallowed her, making her look like a girl instead of the sharp-tongued queen who had taken my seat at the speakeasy.
A son.
