Page 56 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

The Following Summer

I don’t know what variables must come together for two people to fall in love. There’s a myriad of things that have to line up just right, a million coincidences leading people to the exact right place and moment even to have the opportunity for love to grow.

When I consider all of the ways a person can miss it—one different decision, one missed connection—love feels like nothing short of miraculous.

And yet, it happens every day.

It happened to me even, when I least expected it to. And then it happened again when I went through the horrible ordeal of birth, only to be met with the greatest surprise of my life: more love than I could imagine.

Love is still as mysterious to me as it has ever been, even now as I overflow with it.

I’ve been trying to unravel the invisible string through my whole life that led me here, to him, to this life with the two tiny babies that have just started to say “mama.”

I had to work today, just a few rounds with Leo, no violence or promise of violence, and only for a couple hours, but by the time I make it back to the penthouse, I miss my little family so much I can’t imagine being gone a moment longer.

When I get inside, I find Sasha and Maxim playing with the boys in the living room.

Greta sleeps on the couch, her tail lightly swishing against the cushion.

As a rule, she likes to be wherever the babies are.

Sasha bounces Iliya while Maxim helps Enzo roll over on the quilt his mother made for them.

I drop my keys and bag on the counter and my husband turns to me with a smile lighting his face. The wounds from Tenneson have healed into thin white scars that disappear into his short beard. As expected, just as handsome as he’s ever been.

“Is that your mama?” Sasha asks Iliya, already bringing the smiling baby toward me.

I will never get over the way his grin takes up his whole, chubby face and how he offers them so easily to anyone who will smile at him, but especially to me.

Enzo makes us work harder for them, but Maxim can always get him laughing in a way so infectious and special, I want to hear it every day.

“Hi, tiny.” I take Iliya from Sasha and kiss all over his plump cheeks until he laughs, and then give him another kiss for good measure.

Maxim stands, bringing Enzo with him and I repeat the greeting with the both of them, saving an extra long one for Maxim, who looks down at me like I’m the center of the universe when I pull away.

“Any drama today?” he asks.

“None,” I report. I’m not usually on jobs that beget much drama these days. Maxim either. We’ve been practicing the art of delegation . “Nate called and told me it was unkind to say I didn’t want to go bowling with him, though. Says he’s pulling the birthday card so we all have to go with him.”

“Afraid you’ll score less points than him?” Maxim asks.

“Absolutely,” I respond solemnly.

Sasha steps back into the living room, though I hadn’t noticed him leave, and stuffs his phone in his pocket. “I’m off to the Brickyard. Need anything?”

“No, but thank you,” I tell him. He smiles at me and the kids, shaking Illya’s little hand before heading for the elevator.

He’s still single, still has a roster of dates he can call at any time, none of them serious.

It’s so obvious to me that he craves a family.

Leo is the same. I think they probably just spend too much time around a small army of babies—that would make anyone either want their own, or never want one at all.

“I missed you,” I tell Maxim.

“I always miss you,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you how easy it is to love you?”

“Rarely,” I whisper, and smile against his mouth as he kisses me again. “Which is a surprise, because I am just so friendly and approachable.”

“You are,” he mutters against my mouth. It’s then that both boys determine they’ve had enough of this. Well, Enzo decides first, and Iliya follows what Enzo does, so within seconds they’re both fussing.

“Alright, alright, food time,” I say, bouncing the baby until he settles. “If you make E a bottle, I’ll nurse Iliya.”

“Deal.” Maxim kisses my nose and heads for the kitchen after clipping Enzo into his bouncer. I settle on the couch with Iliya and Greta bumps her head against me before plopping down next to my leg. Today is a good day, though not all are.

My fear and anxiety hasn’t decreased since birth, and in some ways it’s worse. My mind still trips over every what-if and those are threefold now that I have two little lives I brought into the world.

But I manage it, and I never have to manage it alone.

I started going to see a therapist after everything went down last year.

The nightmares were getting bad again and Maxim’s little sister recommended a trauma therapist in the city.

It took me two months to finally agree to see someone, and then three weeks to finally start opening up to the kind woman Vera recommended. It’s helped immensely.

She diagnosed me with OCD, which I resented at first. I didn’t want to believe her, didn’t want to label myself in such a tangible way, but she was exceptionally patient with me.

With every subsequent session, I learned more about the way I think, about why I might feel the ways I do.

I unpacked trauma, wrestled with thought patterns I’ve had for years, and complained to Maxim when it was hard.

I’ve learned that nothing is broken about me, I’m not damaged goods, and above all, I don’t have to bear the weight of things on my own.

So when the what-ifs come, I let them. I haven’t had a panic attack since the boys were born, and when my mind is insistent on imagining the horrors that could befall them, Maxim listens.

I think that part of me must’ve known that Maxim would be the perfect partner for me; patient, strong, and so unbearably tender. When I went to his club on Christmas Eve and panicked in the alley, and he crouched in front of me, I must’ve known. Or maybe it was luck. Fate , Sasha would say.

I’ll never not be grateful for the invisible string that led me there, and for him for picking up the other end.

“My mother wants to visit,” Maxim says as he sits on the other side of the couch with Enzo. “Maybe to stay longer this time.”

I raise my eyebrows at the news. His mother hates this city, and braved a visit for a week after the twins were born. I liked her immensely.

“I hope she does,” I say. I used to fear getting too close to any of his family. Too many people to care about, not enough mental capacity to do so effectively.

But I’ve learned that loving people doesn’t make you fragile; if anything it grows your capacity to love more . I won’t pretend to understand it.

We feed the babies, each telling the other about our days, then rock them to sleep. When they’re both set into their bassinets and both asleep (a rare, miraculous occasion), I rest my head on Maxim’s shoulder. He reads, I doze off, and the cat races around the house like a demon.

Everything is exactly as it should be.