Page 138 of Mafia and Scars

Viktor’s large frame fills the door, moving like a shadow as if he’s reluctant to disrupt the calm. He stops in the doorway. For a beat, we just stare at each other. Neither of us moving. Neither of us speaking. He looks tired. Since that night he bought Sofia the stuffed cat, I’ve seen less and less of him.

The air thickens with something unspoken.

He crosses the room slowly, every step measured. I’ve learned that about him—how much he controls himself when emotions try to shake him loose. Every gesture becomes stiffer. But he’s not hiding it like he used to. Or maybe I’ve just started to see it for what it is—overstimulation.

“Viktor?” I ask softly, pushing the laptop away from me. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Too much noise in my head.”

I nod in understanding.

He sits down by my feet, leaving space between us. Careful. As he always is. But his gaze is locked on me. Sharp and soft all at the same time.

It’s a look that makes heat bloom deep inside me. God, why does he look at me like that? Like I’m worth burning for and fighting for.

Neither of us speaks for a while, and the silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

“How’s Sofia doing?” he asks, glancing toward the door.

“Better. Sleeping with the stuffed cat. She’s hugging it so tight.”

A flicker of something passes across his face. Relief? Pride? I’m not sure which, but it’s real and makes him look happier. “She’s doing okay?”

My hand pauses running through Queenie’s fur. Her head lifts, and she gives Viktor a fierce glare, as if he’s interrupting her spoiling session. My lips twitch. “Sofia’s doing good.”

With a huff, Queenie lifts her body, meanders toward Viktor foran affectionate brush against his hand, then jumps down and walks toward the small armchair in the corner.

I let my gaze drift over Viktor. The tension from this evening’s work still lingers in his shoulders. His scarred hands flex slightly on his thighs. Everything about him should be a waving red flag. He’s exactly the type of man I’ve vowed to never go near again—dangerous, brutal, and mixed up in all sorts of dark things. And yet…

He’s done nothing but show me kindness.

Made me feel safe.

And that? God, that terrifies me more than anything else.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus. “Any updates? You guys have been pretty sparse around here.”

“Nothing to note.” His jaw tightens. “Without starting some turf war, there’s not much we can do right now. But it’s only a matter of time until we figure it out.”

I shiver. “Will… I mean, what happens then?”

I don’t really want to know the answer. It’s a dangerous game, but I have to know. When Viktor and the others are gone, leaving just some soldiers behind for security, my anxiety gnaws at me. I worry that Gennady or his men will find their way in here.They’ll find us and take us.

“We’ll deal with him for good.”

The weight of his gaze steals my breath, as does the way his hand, warm and heavy, settles on my leg. So certain. So absolute. Knowing that he plans to take out Gennady shouldn’t be comforting. We’re talking about killing someone, after all. But I have to protect Sofia by whatever means and at whatever cost. And it makes me feel better knowing Viktor is looking out for us. It makes me ache in a way I didn’t know I still could.

Certainty was a luxury I stopped believing in a long time ago. But Viktor—this man makes it feel possible again.

“I’m going to shower,” he says. He stands and vanishes into the bathroom. I settle back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling.

The minutes tick by. But then the door opens and steam spills out. I watch as he towel-dries his hair, another towel wrapped around hiswaist. Steam and water cling to him, and I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my eyes follow him. It’s more than just attraction. If it were just that, us sleeping together would feel like enough. But it’s not. I crave him in conversations, when we garden, or when we’re working in his office. I long to make those small smiles on his face more frequent.

He stops, a dark brow arched at me. “You should sleep. Leon kept you up a lot last night, and you’re working too hard.”

I nod. But I’m not thinking about sleep anymore. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the quiet house and the soft hum of crickets outside the window. Or maybe it’s just all the feelings that are swelling up inside of me.

He steps closer. Then closer, until he’s at the foot of the bed. “Avelina?”