It had been two months since Rowan woke from his coma. Two months of fragmented memories and clinical appointments. Two months of forced civility and chess-like maneuvering under the ice-glazed surface of Volkov politics.
The mist curled from my lips as I stepped out of the black SUV into the bitter sting of the Moscow winter. Snow flurried lazily, blanketing the ancient cobblestone with soft silence. The Volkov manor rose ahead of me like a sleeping beast—ornate, heavy with iron and stone, its windows glinting like cold eyes in the morning light.
"Сэр?" [Sir?]
I turned slightly, glancing back at Armando as he shut the door with a quiet click. He looked around warily, his gloved hand tightening on his coat collar.
"Are we...?" he began, the question unfinished but obvious.
I raised an eyebrow. "No. I'm just here to pick up my son and visit my in-laws," I said, rolling my eyes as I stepped forward and rang the doorbell.
The heavy doors swung open—and there she was. Mila, her soft brown eyes crinkling into a smile. In her arms was Giovanni, bundled in wool, cheeks rosy and eyes wide with sleepy curiosity.
"Мистер Россі," she greeted in warm Russian, arms gently rocking my son. [Mr. Rossi.]
He was growing so fast—now two months old, and already his features were sharpening.
And Rowan... still didn't know.
Still hadn't been told.
I trusted Anatoli, against all better judgment, to break that truth to him. Because despite our long-standing hatred, Ana wanted Giovanni in his life. He wanted a future with his grandson.
And I one with his son.
"Was he any trouble, Mila?" I asked, unfastening my overcoat and handing it to Armando.
"Нет, сэр, он был ангелом." [No sir, he was an angel.] She smiled, but didn't hand him over yet. Her voice softened. "Но... мадам хочет с вами поговорить." [But... the madam wishes to speak with you.]
