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I hang up, tossing the phone onto a nearby chair, its weight suddenly too much to bear. The device looks innocuous, but it’s like a live grenade, a carrier of secrets yet to be revealed.
Ilya tugs on the hem of my shirt, his eyes wide and filled with innocent curiosity. "Mama, who was that?"
Forcing a smile onto my face, I crouch down to his level. "That was Roman, baby. He's going to join us soon."
"Do you know when?" His little voice is hopeful, tinged with an excitement that makes my heart swell.
"Soon," I assure him, pulling him into a hug, burying my face in the crook of his neck. He smells of baby shampoo and pure, untainted innocence.
As I hold my son, my mind races, a cyclone of questions and possible answers spinning wildly. What is Roman hiding? And why do I have the feeling that whatever it is, it’s going to tip our already precarious world straight off its axis?
But for now, I push the thought to the farthest corner of my mind. For now, my son needs his mother to be present, to be strong. And that's exactly what I'll be.
My entire body is a taut wire of impatience, vibrating with every second that ticks by. It's like I'm balancing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between two unknowns. Roman's words keep looping through my mind, like a broken record: "It's a conversation best had face-to-face."
Nikita seems to sense the underlying tension, the electricity that's so palpable it's practically visible. "How about some ice cream, Ilya?" she offers, the question clearly aimed at distracting both of us.
I nod, forcing a smile onto my face. "Go on, buddy, it's a treat."
Ilya's face lights up and he follows Nikita into the kitchen. For a fleeting second, I'm left in solitude teeming with questions, anxieties, and secrets. Time passes, Ilya busy with his ice cream, Nikita giving me respectful distance.
And finally, the door opens.
Roman steps through it, his hulking brother Samuil with him. In that moment, my heart leaps in both relief and apprehension. But what catches me off guard is the figure standing timidly behind him—a shadow from my past that's abruptly been thrust into the glaring light of my present.
Iosef.
My stomach lurches, my mind goes blank, and for a split second, I can't breathe. Seeing him again is like a punch to the gut, a wound reopened. My eyes dart between the two men, each a polar opposite of the other, each representing a chapter of my life, one closed and one still unwritten.
"Valentina," Roman's voice breaks the heavy silence. "We need to talk."
He notices Ilya, who has wandered back into the room, spoon in hand, eyes wide. Roman seems taken aback, as if the sight of Ilya is a wrinkle in an otherwise carefully laid-out plan.
Shit.No doubt he expected the boy to be asleep. Too late to go back. I nod to Roman, indicating for him to continue whatever he had planned. Nikita places her hand on Ilya’s shoulder, guiding the confused boy away from the scene.
Roman turns his attention back to Iosef. "Tell her. Tell her the truth."
He fidgets, his eyes avoiding direct contact, darting around as if searching for a way out of this reckoning. His fingers tremble and his shoulders hunch, already on the defensive.
"Look, Valentina," he begins, his voice shaky, "You have to understand, I never intended for things to go this far. I never wanted to hurt you." A thin smile stretches across his face, one that begs for understanding, for absolution. "When you told me you were pregnant, I panicked. I was scared, you know? I wasn't ready to be a father, wasn't ready to be tied down. You have to see it from my point of view."
His eyes finally meet mine, as if expecting a nod of agreement, some sign of empathy. But my face remains stone-like, unmoved by his weak entreaties.
"I knew I couldn't just call it off. Do you know what Vlad would've done to me if I'd simply backed out?" His voice rises slightly, tinged with a mix of self-pity and fear. "So I did what I thought was best for me. I faked my death." Iosef shifts nervously, looking at Roman and then back at me. "I didn't think it through, okay? I didn't plan to drag the Bratva or anyone else into it. I just... I took the easy way out because it seemed like the only way."
His words hang in the air like a dark cloud, a sad testament to his cowardice, his failure to step up when it mattered most. "So, you see, I had my reasons," he finally mumbles, almost as if he's begging me to say I understand, that it's okay.
But it's not okay. It was never okay. And as I look at him—this ghost from my past who's suddenly been resurrected—I realize how much I've moved on, how far I've come. In the end, Iosef's cowardice, his lack of backbone, only serve to underscore the stark contrast between him and Roman.
My eyes sting, a lump forms in my throat, and for a brief moment, I feel like crumbling. But then, a small voice pierces through the tension.
Ilya. He’s come back into the room.
"I don't know him," Ilya says, looking up at Iosef, his young eyes filled with an innocent yet decisive judgment. "I don't like him."
“It’s me,” Iosef says. “Your papa!”
I glare at Iosef. “Don’t you dare use that word – you don’t deserve to call yourself such a name.”
