Chapter 7: A Quiet Kitchen Table
We stepped out of the cold corridor and into the warm, small kitchen that smelled faintly of cinnamon and boiled potatoes. The linoleum floor was scuffed and clean, a stark contrast to the gleaming marble and crystal of the estate we had left behind hours ago. At the center of the room stood a low wooden table covered in stray crayons, coloring books, and a half-empty glass of milk. Sitting in a small plastic chair was five-year-old Leo, his dark curly hair messy from sleep and play, his little brow furrowed in concentration as he pressed a blue crayon against a sheet of white paper.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird. I hadn't touched him, hadn't held him close to my chest in over a year—not since Viktor's rivals had started closing in on our downtown penthouse, forcing me to hand him over to Sarah in the dead of night to save his life.
Leo looked up at the sound of our footsteps. His wide, dark eyes—so much like Viktor's it made my breath catch—scanned Sarah, then me, and finally landed on the tall, bearded stranger standing in the doorway. He didn't cry out, but he dropped his crayon, the blue wax rolling across the table and clattering onto the floor.
"Mommy?" Leo's small voice cut through the heavy silence of the room.
I choked back a sob, taking a half-step forward before Viktor gently extended his arm, blocking my path not with hostility, but with an overwhelming, paralyzing wave of emotion. Viktor stared down at the boy, his formidable frame trembling slightly. The man who controlled shipping ports, financial syndicates, and high-society galas looked entirely dismantled by a child sitting at a kindergarten table.
"Hey, buddy," Viktor said, his voice cracking on the words as he knelt slowly onto one knee, bringing himself down to Leo's eye level. It was an awkward, unpracticed movement for a man accustomed to standing tall over his enemies, but it was profoundly earnest.
May you like
Leo tilted his head, studying the tattoos on Viktor's hands and the unfamiliar face. "Are you a giant?" the boy asked innocently, his childish curiosity overriding any fear.
A ragged, breathless laugh escaped Viktor's chest. He reached out with a massive, calloused hand, his fingers trembling as he hovered inches away, asking for permission without words. "Something like that," Viktor whispered, a tear finally breaking free from the corner of his eye and cutting a clean path through the stubble on his cheek. "Can I... can I sit with you?"
