Roman freezes, startled by the anger in my voice.
“When I called Sergei to find a way to get into contact when I found out I was pregnant, I was told Maksim haddied!” The words pour out of me. I don’t care if we’re drawing a crowd from the other patrons. “He wasdead, Roman. That’s what they told me.”
A flicker of shock passes over his face. His shoulders pull tight beneath his jacket. For a man who rarely shows hishand, that is a dead giveaway that tells me all I need to know. None of them knew the truth.
“I spent years mourning him.Yearsraising Leo alone, telling him stories about his father, making sure he knew he was loved, even if it was only through memory. Do you have any idea what that was like?” My voice tapers off into a whisper, the fury draining out of me and leaving behind something hollow.
His mouth is pressed into a thin line, brows drawn tight over eyes that finally lose their judgment. For once, Roman doesn’t have a quick answer. No cold analysis. No stinging remark dressed in practicality.
He just stares at me, stunned.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to slow the sob clawing its way up my throat. My voice is quiet when I speak again, softer now. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I really did. Maksim suddenly showing up again, wanting a relationship with me… with my son like the last seven years didn’t happen. Do you understand how angry that made me? How betrayed I felt?”
He drags a hand over his face, the tension in his jaw twitching.
“Well. That explains a lot.” When he finally exhales roughly, he says, “I’m sorry, Ivy. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
I blink again. “What?”
“I was out of line. I’m not… good with this stuff. The emotional stuff,” he mutters, stabbing his spoon into the melting gelato again without looking at me.
“No kidding.”
His mouth twitches into an almost smile.
I look down at my untouched gelato. The top’s melted now, soft around the edges, but still edible. The sprinkles have congealed into the center, the weight of them collapsing the treat inward from their sugary weight, making an almost gelato-like pool.
Leo would love it.
“I just want to bring him home,” I mumble. “That’s all I want.”
Roman nods slowly, rising to his feet with his half-finished cup. “We’ll make that happen.”
He leaves to toss it into the trash at the front of the parlor. I glance after him, then down at my own half-melted cup. My hand wraps around the spoon, more out of habit than hunger. I can’t even remember the last time I ate.
Just as I bring the spoon toward my mouth, movement flashes in the corner of my eye.
A woman, maybe in her twenties, dressed in the bland khaki uniform of the gelato shop’s staff passes by with a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. She shouldn’t stand out. She shouldn’t register as anything more than background noise, but it’s only when she pauses close by that I notice her.
She reaches out toward me, tossing something small into my lap before she keeps sweeping as she walks away.
I glance down to see a small piece of paper crumbled in my lap, the edges of it crinkled and a little dirty.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up and slide it beneath the table, shielding it from sight. When I unfold it, all I find is a single line written in tiny, rushed handwriting.
A date and a time.
There’s no other explanation, but I don’t need one. I know exactly what this is—what it means.
All I feel is dread sinking like a stone into my stomach.
15
IVY
It takes me the whole next day to convince myself to actually agree to go through with it.
Every second feels like an argument with my own morality. I pace around the bedroom until my feet hurt, my thoughts looping, circling, spiraling, tangling together until I feel like a heart attack is on the horizon.