Page 103 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

The name changes the table.

Ivan.

She said it carefully.

I answer just as carefully. “Yes.”

Her throat moves. “That’s terrifying.”

“I know.”

“Not because of how wrong that would’ve been. Because I believe you would’ve done it for me regardless.”

I have no answer for that. The trumpet rises, bright and aching, then softens before it can become sentimental.

Tamara looks toward the stage. “They’re good.”

“I hoped you would enjoy them.”

“Yuri didn’t get a review?”

“Yuri has many talents. Musical criticism is not among them.”

A real laugh escapes her. I stay still and let myself have it. She looks back at me, and the laughter fades.

“I keep trying to imagine his hands,” she says. “That sounds strange.”

“No.”

“When he was born, I counted every finger. I remember that more clearly than his face. Isn’t that awful?”

“No.”

“I held a dead child and counted his fingers because I thought that was all I would ever know of my son.” Her voice remains controlled, but her eyes shine in the low light. “I keep wondering if his hands look like his father’s.”

Her sleeve has shifted back enough to reveal the small heart inked near her wrist.

I reach for her hand slowly enough that she can refuse me. She doesn’t. My thumb rests once over the tiny black outline.

“For Mark?” I ask.

Tamara swallows and looks back toward the stage. Her fingers stay still beneath mine. Not holding on. Not pulling away either.

I let go before the touch can become anything she has to answer.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For bringing him here.”

“He’s yours,” I say. “He comes with you.”

The words were not planned. I’m glad of that. Planned words often fail where simple ones do not.

When she looks at me again, the distance is still there. Less of it, maybe.

“One hour,” she murmurs.