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“This?” I offer it to him, but he takes one sniff and starts howling like I offered him poison.

I set it down and bend down, trying to ignore his recoil.

“C’mon, Sasha,” I say, motioning to the table in the kitchen and Olga puts him down on the seat, a cushion beneath him, “work with me here. I’m not going to starve you, but you need to eat. What do you want?”

He slows his crying, and he looks at me, then at the cupboard and points at something.

I get up. I don’t know who the fuck it belongs to, but there’s chocolate puffs in a box. I grab the milk, a spoon and a bowl, and pour some in, adding the milk.

He stares at it, then me, and I hold my breath.

“Snack!” he says, taking the spoon and shoving the food in his face. Some actually gets in his mouth, though his shirt is filthy and soaked by the end and the table is a mess.

Christ. If that’s the crap she feeds him, then maybe he’s better with me. At least I can wean him on to healthy foods.

I look at the mess and pull a soggy puff from my hair. What I need to do is?—

He smiles.

Sasha smiles.

It’s not big, but to me, it’s the brightest, most amazing thing I’ve seen. He looks at me and it dims, just a bit, but he doesn’t seem as scared of me as he was.

Magda appears, armed with cleaning products, beams at the boy, scowls at me, and says, “Out, out. Take him to play. The day is nice.”

And from the sounds coming from the front door and the shouts in Russian, the furniture and bedding have arrived .

“I’ll make sure it’s all set up,” she says, irritated I’m still there. “Go.”

Olga would never speak to me this way. In fact, the only person who’d dare come close is Ilya, and even then, he knows just how far to push. Magda’s mood says she doesn’t care.

“He needs to get changed.”

The irritation grows. “Are you scared of some milk, Demyan? He’ll get dirtier. Here.” She shoves things at me and points to the back, and it’s clear she expects me to pick him up. Me, pick up the boy who hates me.

But he doesn’t now. He’s full of sugar and milk and his smile is still there. Best of all, the word mama hasn’t passed his lips.

I take a breath.

I’ve walked into deadly situations. Had the odds against me. I’ve faced and killed real human monsters.

Why the fuck am I terrified of a little boy?

Because, I realize, he’s mine. And I don’t want to fuck it up. I want him to love me like I love him. That love was sudden, and it’s still there, growing by the second. Is this how?—

I don’t want to think about Erin.

So I set down the things Magda gave me and I pick him up. He goes stiff, but he doesn’t fight me. He doesn’t cry. I hoist him on a hip and grab the plastic bowl and big silicone spoons from Magda and take him out into the sunshine.

“Mama? Where’s Mama?” His face starts to crumple and I toss him the scrunched-up foil I grabbed to use as a ball.

His face suddenly turns up into a smile and a giggle bursts free as the sun hits the silver, making it shine and seem to glow. He misses it by a long shot, but he runs to it, short, pudgy legs eating up the grass. “Mine. It’s mine.”

And he throws it up in the air where it lands a few inches from him. I come in and get it, handing him the bowl and spoon he’s been using as a drum.

Aside from the occasional mama and little bouts of tears, he’s mostly smiles and laughter. And screams. He screams when he’s sad, when he’s scared, and when he’s happy and excited, apparently, but I don’t mind when it’s from positivity.

He’s having fun.

And so am I.

Genuinely.

He’s delightful, intriguing, and so fucking adorable I can’t stand it. This little boy is also getting used to me. The fear’s forgotten when he wants to bang his bowl drum, play with the silver foil ball, or run around.

It’s all so surreal, that this little guy’s mine. I made him. The idea I’m a fucking father is something I’m still wrapping my head around.

But one thing I know, one thing I can’t ever forgive, is the boy has been alive for over two years and I didn’t know. That time was stolen. I’ll never get it back.

“Boss?”

I look up from where I’m sitting on the grass taking a video of Sasha playing and laughing to himself.

“We need a swing, some outdoor things for him to play on and climb,” I say to Ilya as I stop filming and put my phone away as I get to my feet. “Order some.”

“The room’s been set up for him, and I have clothes, shoes, and toys.” He opens a bag. “I brought some of them out, as Magda says he might need a change of shirt.”

“Sasha?” He stops and looks at me, suspicion creeping in. I pull out a T-shirt. It has a big friendly dinosaur on it. “Come here, please. ”

He shakes his head and Ilya says, “He’s a child. Bribe him with a toy.”

I pull out what looks like a giant robot and he’s intrigued enough he comes over. We manage to get him in the shirt, which is a little too big, and I play peekaboo with him to stop him crying when he stands on the silver foil ball, crushing it.

He laughs hysterically and hugs the robot and the new ball Ilya hands him.

Sasha’s giggles are magic and I brush away the anger of what Erin took from me. Instead, I just try and enjoy the now.

But soon he’s more whiny and teary and cranky than before, and I take him in, up to his new room.

He’s clearly tired, and even though he holds my hand on the way up, he tugs free and shakes his head and blows out his cheeks as they start to turn red.

He’s going to throw a tantrum; the tears are already flowing and his asking for his mother is growing in frequency.

“She’s not here. You need to get changed and have a nap.”

But he shoves me and shakes his head, distressed at the new room. “I want my mama. I want my goat. I want my story. I want my room. I. Want. Mama. Mama!”

I pick him up and he goes stiff as a board kicking, screaming, and I don’t get how someone so light and small can be so impossible to hold. I dump him on the bed out of fear of dropping him and he scrabbles up, screaming and crying now.

The door opens, and Alina appears. “Let me try. I could use the distraction.”

She goes to him. He’s half off the bed now, and she tickles him and his screams turn to watery giggles. “No. I want Mama. Mama.”

But she doesn’t give up, and soon she has him under the covers. She climbs up next to him, holding him, rocking him gently, and he starts to settle .

She looks at me. “If you have things to do, go do them. I’ll stay with him.”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to miss a moment, but Ilya and I have things to do.

In my study, I close my door and look at him.

“What have you got for me?”

“I still say this is Sergio’s work,” I say.

But Ilya shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s him. He’s the type to announce it, not hide like a snake.”

The man’s a snake, but I don’t say it. “He might have decided to exact a punishment on the lowdown.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says, “but if so, he’s exceptionally good at covering his tracks. And I’m not sure he’s that good. He has an ego, Demyan. It can’t be underestimated. Ego like his demands acknowledgement.”

I tap my fingers on my desk. “I’ll take it under advisement. What’s the latest on the ID from the severed finger?”

Anyone else might point out there hasn’t been enough time, but not Ilya. He can work magic, and he knows how to expedite things. He has contacts high and low.

Ilya sighs. “We’re still waiting for the results. But she’s fast-tracking them for me.”

“We’ll work it out eventually,” I say with a frown. “And when I find out the culprit, I’ll rain hell down on them and everyone dear to them. Every single one.”