Page 81 of Mafia and Scars

And before I can react, she yanks her hand free and bolts.

Her small legs pump as she dashes across the lot and away from the noise.

“No, Sofia!”

My voice cracks.

And my heart lurches into my throat as I see the blur of headlights.

The car is coming fast.

Too fast.

I run toward Sofia but stumble.

Viktor moves before I can cry out. One moment he’s beside me, the next he’s a shadow streaking across the asphalt. He scoops Sofia up with one arm, his other hand slamming against the hood of the car to tell it to stop.

Tires screech.

The driver curses.

I collapse to my knees. My vision swims.

Viktor turns, chest heaving, Sofia clutched tight against him.

She’s wailing now, her tiny fingers tangled in his shirt.

“She’s safe,” he growls, his voice raw and protective. His eyes are wild, scanning her as though to check every inch.

I stagger forward, clutching them both. “Thank you,” I sob to him, kissing Sofia’s damp face.

That night, when the children are asleep, my mind keeps going back to what happened earlier.

The way Viktor saved Sofia in the parking lot, not hesitating or thinking about his own safety. Not pausing for a split second—even though he hates touch and can find it extremely difficult.

And the way Viktor soothed my crying daughter and held her in the shoe store. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t have a doubt. He just did what he knew we needed.

And the way he does all these things for us…

It makes me know that he’s an extremely special man.

The rec room is dim now. The leather couch sinks when I sit down, but it’s homey, and I like it.

It’s quiet. No poker tonight. No laughter or loud voices arguing over who gets to do what. Most of the men are out working, leaving just Viktor and me in here tonight.

He sits next to me—close but not quite touching—while the kids sleep upstairs. It’s a small reprieve from the madness that seems to be the Kremlin itself.

Viktor hasn’t said much since we walked in. It’s typical of him, I’ve realized. After spending so much time with others, he needs time to regulate and become calm again. A lot like Sofia.

I curl one leg underneath me, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I take a slow sip of my hot chocolate. It almost seems like this whole stay is a crazy dream. His posture relaxes, an arm draped on the back of the couch, the other resting on his thigh.

I drag my eyes back to the book in my lap, trying to displace the memory of those hands along my skin. I tuck my legs closer together to displace the moisture that pools there. The sex with him was hot. A lot hotter than anything I experienced before, and it’s haunted my dreams in the best way possible.

But that isn’t where my head needs to be going…

His gaze flickers to the TV, where a black-and-white movie plays on low volume. I turn back to my book, and I think he’s watching the movie until his hand brushes mine.

The barest touch.