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Lyla was always proud and prideful. When we were in college, she never wanted to accept my help and certainly not my money. But I think she’d take it for her child.
Leaving Lyla the first time was challenging. If I’d known she was pregnant, I don’t know what I would have done. Seeing her—seeing my son—opens them both up to risks.
Risks they’ll face their whole lives regardless…because of me. If anyone ever put together my association with them, they’d be in danger. Any attempt to keep them safe would double as an admittance.
Word would spread fast that I have a child.
A son.
Anheir.
I stand on cracked pavement and feel similar fissures break the heart I thought couldn’t be affected.
Protect or pretend?
It’s been nine years since I left. Since I stepped up to my rightful position asPakhanof the Morozov Bratva. No one has come after them.
If I marry Anastasia the way I planned and have more children, they’ll be the family that my enemies will target. They’ll be the ones with round-the-clock protection, who I’ll eat dinner with each night.
I vacillate between an impossible choice, already knowing what my decision has to be.
My feet don’t move.
My decision is made.
But I fight it. Struggle with it. Mourn what could have been.
I keep staring at the building where Lyla Peterson lives with my son, trying to picture their existence. Have they always lived here? Did she finish school after she found out she was pregnant? Did she consider not keeping the baby? Was Alex right? Does he look like me?
Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.
This time, she’ll know I abandoned them both. Either she’ll lie to our son or he’ll know I chose not to be involved in his life.
I heave a sigh, knowing I need to leave. My men are undoubtedly wondering what the hell I’m doing, just standing here. It was reckless and impulsive—two adjectives no one would use to describe me—coming here. I should go straight back to New York, settle my business there, and then return to Russia, as planned.
Feeling unsettled but resolved, I turn to leave.
And realize I took too long to make a choice.
Lyla Peterson is walking toward me. She’s on the phone, tugging the end of her dark ponytail with her free hand and chewing on her lower lip as she listens to whatever is being said on the other end.
I can’t think. Can’t move.
I just soak in the sight of her.
Time hasn’t dulled any recognition. I could pick her out of a crowd of thousands.
Lyla looks tired, but not unhappy. She’s wearing slacks and a puffy coat, her cheeks and ears pink with cold. No makeup. Aside from her face, the only glimpse of skin are her hands, one palm bandaged from the injury that has me standing here.
Even exhausted and bundled, she pulls all the oxygen out of the air. My heartbeat stutters as my gaze ghosts over her high cheekbones, long lashes, and full lips. I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women. Most of them knewexactlyhow attractive they were. I always got the sense Lyla didn’t, even when I’d tell her—and show her—and her slumped shoulders suggest she still has no clue.
Lyla says something and then hangs up the call, slipping the phone into the pocket of her jacket.
Then, she spots me and freezes. All the color drains from her face like rain sliding down a windowpane.
Neither of us blinks or breathes. This feels like a moment suspended in time, impenetrable to any outside force.
For a second, it’s just me and her. Nothing else matters or even exists.
