I brush my thumb over Leo’s cheek, soft and warm under my touch.
“It’s complicated, honey. Sometimes people fight because they want to hurt each other. You and I got caught in the middle of it because Maksim cares very deeply about us. Some people saw that and took advantage of it.”
Leo studies me, his lashes casting long shadows when they fan along his cheekbones. “So… the bad men wanted to hurt him too?”
“Yes. He fought to keep you safe. Do you remember how he grabbed you? How he carried you out of the restaurant after what happened?”
He nods slowly, his little mouth pressed into a tight line.
I pull him closer, cradling him against me, pressing another kiss to his hair. “That’s what matters most, baby. You’re safe. Maksim made sure of that.”
That seems to satisfy him for the time being. He closes his eyes and curls into my arms as I wrap the blanket around us and lie back down onto the mattress. I lie beside him until his breathing slows, listening to the soft rhythm of his chest rising and falling, counting each breath like it’s proof the world hasn’t taken him from me yet.
The questions don’t stop there like I thought they would. They keep coming.
A few days later, we’re sitting on the porch steps in the late afternoon, the sun dipping low behind the rooftops of the houses across the street. The air smells faintly of cut grass and someone grilling down the street. Leo kicks his heels against the wooden step, his popsicle melting as his tongue darts around to catch the teardrops. His eyes follow a passing car with absent curiosity.
Out of nowhere, he says, “Why did Maksim and those guys have guns?”
The words drop like stones in my chest.
“What?”
His brows pull together in that frown that’s becoming far too familiar lately. “At the restaurant. They all had guns. Is Maksim a policeman?”
The laugh that nearly slips out tastes bitter on my tongue.The very idea of Maksim with a badge and a uniform is almost too absurd to imagine. “No, sweetheart. He’s not.”
Leo frowns deeper. “Then what is he?”
My chest tightens. The question is so simple, so innocent, but it twists me up inside until I can hardly breathe. Sleep is a luxury I haven’t had in far too long, and everything else—breathing, thinking, pretending we’re okay—is taking all the strength I have left.
How do I tell him that the man who pulled him out of hell that day is the same man whose world dragged him into it in the first place? That his father isn’t a soldier or a hero in the way little boys dream of, but a Mafia boss? How do I explain that the reason blood stains his memories is because of the man who gave him half his DNA?
That who I loved is the reason he’s suffered?
I pause, stalling for time, trying to dig through the fog in my mind for something I can live with saying. A way to reveal the truth without completely shattering his innocence. “He’s someone who tries to keep people he cares about safe. Sometimes when that happens, he has to be aggressive.”
Leo turns and searches my eyes for a long moment with a look far too serious for someone his age, weighing whether or not to believe me. Then he nods slowly, turning back to watching the street. The guilt of that settles heavily in my chest, because I know one day, maybe sooner than I want, he’s going to ask a question I’ll have no choice but to answer straightforwardly.
Later that evening, Lettie comes home from her university classes just as I’m finishing a basket of Leo’s laundry. I’mhalfway to folding the last tiny pair of socks when her voice hits me from the hallway.
“Tell me why my nephew is drawing stick figures carryingguns, Ivy.”
I nearly groan.
Instead, I toss the pair of socks onto the pile and rub my face, dragging my hands down until my skin feels raw. I don’t even bother answering right away. What could I possibly say?
Lettie doesn’t wait for an invitation. She pushes through the doorway and steps inside, holding up a wrinkled piece of notebook paper like evidence in a courtroom. Crayon lines scrawl across the page, crude outlines of men with thick black lines for weapons, red circles that could be bullet holes, and one tiny figure off to the side with curly hair.
Leo’s self-portrait. I know because he always gives himself green shoes.
“I found this in the living room,” she says, waving it slightly. “And before you ask—no, it’s not from some violent cartoon. He told me this was from memory.”
I stare at the drawing like it might suddenly burst into flames.
She softens a little. “Ivy. What happened?”
I want to answer… Ineedto, but the truth sticks in my throat like it always does.