Page 137 of Mafia and Scars

“I know they make me look?—”

“Perfect,” he interrupts, his voice low but firm.

I blink slowly. “What?”

He comes closer to me. “I’m staring, Avelina, because you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. And because I love seeing you in your glasses—they make you look adorable.”

A blush runs up my cheeks, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

“Thank you,” I whisper with a shy smile at him.

Viktor just keeps his eyes steady on me. “Keep them on,” he says. “I like seeing you wear them.”

My throat tightens, because he says it like he means it.Like he sees something worth looking at.

And all those years of trying to be less—less awkward, less ugly, lessme—collapse under the weight of his gentle gaze.

Leon is at it again.

It’s two in the morning, and my sweet, angel-faced baby boy has apparently decided to audition for a heavy metal band. His screams echo through the enormous house. I rock him. I sing. I try patting his back. Nothing works. This is the third night in a row of this, and my eyelids feel like sandpaper.

Viktor appears in the doorway of the kitchen, shirtless, hair a mess, and with an expression like he’s a grumpy, sexy bear who got woken up mid-hibernation. “Put this on,” he orders me, handing me his jacket and a blanket for Leon.

“Where are we going?”

He grabs his car keys. “For a drive. Babies like cars. Babulya said she’ll listen out for Sofia.”

“A 2 a.m. road trip?” I mutter, half-delirious.

We get in the car, and soon, Viktor is driving in steady circles around the city like some mafia Uber service while Leon wails in his car seat.

The hum of the engine is hypnotic, a low, steady purr that feels like a lullaby.

And soon, Leon’s little snores fill the back seat, soft and snuffly, while Viktor drives like he’s on an all-important mission. His huge hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the glow of the dashboard lights. And I’m curled up in my seat, snuggled into Viktor’s jacket that smells like soap and him.

Somewhere around mile forty, I fall asleep too, my head lolling against the window.

And when I wake up, the sun is streaked across the sky—while Viktor is still driving, looking absurdly calm and in control.

I check my watch. “Oh my God…you’ve been drivingfor six hours? Why didn’t you wake me? You didn’t have to do this,” I croak.

He glances at me, his expression softening for a moment. “You needed sleep. The baby needed sleep. I fix things.”

My chest squeezes.

“You’ve been stressed lately about the Gennady business. I wanted to help.”

“You’re crazy,” I say softly.

“Maybe,” he murmurs as his lip tugs upward.

And at the sight of his small smile, I feel my heart as it starts thudding much too fast.

The next night, the men are all out. It shouldn’t bother me, but lately the house feels too still once the kids are asleep. It’s the kind of quiet that lets your thoughts creep through the cracks, and I hate it. I’ve worked too hard to push those things away.

I close the laptop balanced on my knees as I sit in bed. Queenie isnestled beside me, home and on the mend. The days she was gone left an ache we all felt.

A small noise draws my attention to the hall.