Ghost (Boston Underworld #3) - A. Zavarelli Page 0,79

will be a good father. But I also know he is nervous. He worries about letting us down.

I see that fear bloom more as my belly grows larger. I see it when he spends time in the nursery, examining the things I bought. And often, I see it late at night. When he is inside of me and looking into my eyes.

I don’t try to reassure him. Because like me, Alexei needs to figure this out on his own. My words will not ease his worries, just as his words won’t always ease mine.

Today, when I pass by his office, he is staring at the chess board on his desk. But Franco is nowhere to be found. Only Alexei, deep in his own thoughts.

I watch him for a while, in the silence. In his element, his brain working in a way that I will never understand. I watch the way his eyes calculate all of the moves, his hand brushing over his jaw. He is so incredibly handsome. My heart is beating too hard, too fast. I ache for him in ways that are not familiar to me. I ache for his words, his touches, his eyes on me.

When I have those things, nothing else in the world exists. He always leaves me longing for more.

“You could say hello,” Franco says from behind me.

I startle at his presence, curious how long he was standing there. Watching me, watching my husband.

“Why don’t you join us,” he suggests. “Somebody besides me should see the man’s chess skills.”

I hesitate, but Franco ushers me inside before I can come up with any excuses. When Alexei sees me, he gives me a curious look.

I was bored this morning, so I spent extra time playing around with my makeup. Smoking my eyes and trying out a new lipstick.

“You look different,” he notes.

I boldly take a seat on his desk and swing my legs off the side, meeting his gaze. “And you like it.”

He smiles, and so does Franco. And then they turn their attention to the game that never seems to end.

“Franco tells me you have some mad skills,” I note.

Alexei waves off the suggestion. “He always lets me win.”

“I never let you do anything,” Franco grunts.

“Can you teach me?” I ask.

Alexei seems surprised by my request. He reaches for my calf and feathers his fingers over my skin, tickling and massaging me.

“I cannot teach you, but you can learn.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just watch, Solnyshko.”

So I do. But I keep getting distracted from the game by the man playing it. His hand is still on my leg, my feet now resting on his thighs.

Alexei is giving and caring and warm. But he is also his own island. He does not accept these things from anybody else.

“What about that one?” I ask him, pointing at the cracked chess piece sitting atop his desk. The one that I know has absolutely nothing to do with this game and everything to do with something else.

He looks at the piece and then back to me. Franco keeps his focus on the game, and I’m glad.

“That is from the first time I ever beat my father at the game,” he tells me. “Or rather, the first time I ever allowed myself to.”

I reach out for it hesitantly, examining it between my fingers. It is odd that he has kept it all these years. But it is significant to him.

“Why?” I ask.

“My mother told me I should always allow him to win,” Alexei answers. “And I did. Until he told me I was not a worthy opponent.”

“It’s cracked,” I remark.

“It is,” he replies.

There is nothing else said, but it answers my question. Alexei’s father was enraged by this. And for some reason, it pleases him. I suspect that Sergei has always been insecure over his son. But I also suspect it has nothing to do with his hearing and everything to do with his intelligence.

Like me, Alexei had to adapt to the world he was born in. And I have no doubt he is always the smartest man in the room. Calculating his moves like he does on the chess board. Standing with his back towards a wall so he never misses a cue in conversation. His eyes working overtime to assess everyone in his orbit. Trying to appear as though he is normal.

But this man is nowhere near normal.

He is a genius in a room full of cavemen. Highly adapted and overqualified for everything he does. And yet he slums it