Chapter 18
KONSTANTIN
The room smells like antiseptic and old plastic. Machines hum softly around me—calm, precise, indifferent. I sit in the chair beside Nikolai’s bed and watch his tiny chest rise and fall under the soft hospital blanket. His small hands rest above it, palms curled, unmoving.
I’ve faced war zones with steadier hands than I have right now.
Mila was easy. She came to me with wide eyes and open arms, her trust wrapped in innocence and no memory of abandonment. She just was. Mine. Like it had always been.
But Nikolai?
Nikolai watches me like he’s still trying to decide whether I’m a man or a monster.
And the worst part is—I don’t blame him.
I clear my throat quietly and glance at the book on the nightstand. Irina told me it’s his favorite. Dinosaurs. Of course. Every boy wants to know about the biggest, meanest things that ever walked the earth.
I pick it up, flipping through the pages, stopping at one with sharp teeth and claws.
“I used to be afraid of these too,” I say, not sure if he’s awake. “Velociraptors. Not the size—they were smaller than you’d think. But fast. Smart. They hunted in packs.”
Silence.
I glance over.
He’s awake. I know he is. His eyes are half-open. He’s pretending to sleep because pretending is easier.
I sigh and set the book down. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. That’s okay.”
Another beat of silence. I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees. “I didn’t know about you,” I say softly. “That’s not an excuse. But it’s the truth. I didn’t know I had a son.”
His fingers twitch slightly.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. “No one taught me how to be a father. But I’m here. And I want to try. If you’ll let me.”
Still nothing.
I press my fingers to my mouth, eyes burning before I even realize why.
“I missed five years, Nikolai,” I say, voice hoarse. “And I’ll never get them back. But I swear to you—on everything I’ve ever bled for—I won’t miss another day if I can help it.”
I expect nothing in return. Not a word. Not even a twitch.
But then, so softly I barely catch it—
“My tummy hurts.”
I sit up straight, heart pounding. “Where?”
He lifts his hand weakly and presses it to his side.
“I’ll call the nurse,” I say, rising instantly. But before I do, I pause. “Thank you,” I murmur.
He doesn’t answer. But his hand stays visible now. Not hidden.
A crack in the wall.
I step out of the room with measured urgency, but inside I’m already on edge. Nikolai’s voice is still echoing in my ears—my tummy hurts—and I can’t shake the flicker of panic that something’s wrong. Something the doctors missed.
I spot a nurse at the desk and approach quickly, not bothering to soften my expression.
“My son is complaining of abdominal pain,” I say, voice low and clipped. “Room four-twelve.”
She barely looks up. “The doctor was just in there an hour ago.”
“He wasn’t hurting an hour ago.”
She sighs. “Kids say that sometimes. It could just be gas. It’s not uncommon—”
“Stop.” I plant my hands on the edge of the counter, my eyes boring into hers. “You don’t know him. You don’t know his history. And I’m not here to debate symptoms with someone who’s more concerned about her chart updates than a five-year-old in a hospital bed.”
Her face pales. “I’ll call someone to check—”
“Don’t bother.”
I turn and walk away before I do something I’ll regret, pulling my phone out and dialing Lev.
He picks up after two rings, already groggy. “Didn’t expect to hear from you this early,” he mutters. “Everything alright?”
“No,” I snap. “I need you to find me the best pediatric specialist in the city. Someone with cardiac-related experience.”
There’s a pause. “Okay,” Lev says slowly. “That’s oddly specific. Did something happen?”
“Nikolai’s in pain. I want him seen. Tonight.”
“Konstantin…” Lev sighs. “You can’t just pull the best doctor out of thin air. These people don’t live in your back pocket.”
“Then dig deeper,” I say flatly. “I don’t care what you have to promise, who you have to pay, or how many red carpets you need to roll out. You find them.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then: “Okay,” Lev says. “I’ll call you in an hour.”
“You have thirty minutes.” And I hang up.
I don’t return to the nurse’s desk. I don’t trust her.
I don’t trust any of them now. My hands are already clenched at my sides as I walk back into the room, forcing my footsteps to slow, to quiet.
Nikolai’s eyes are half-closed again, his tiny hand now clutching the blanket near his stomach.
There’s a soft crease between his brows. He’s in pain.
I take my seat beside him, jaw still tight.
“I told someone,” I say, keeping my voice calm, even though the burn in my chest hasn’t faded. “But we’re going to get someone better, someone who actually listens.”
He blinks, and for a second I think he might ask a question, but he just nods. A tired little nod that guts me more than I expect.
I lean forward and brush a hand gently through his hair, surprised at how natural it feels. How right.
A few minutes pass. I glance at the clock. Twenty-two minutes until Lev’s deadline.
Nikolai shifts slightly under the blanket.
“Is it bad?” I ask quietly.
He nods again. “Not like yesterday. But it’s…there.”
I press my palm gently against his forehead. No fever. Just discomfort and that dull, persistent look in his eyes that tells me he’s used to it. That he’s learned how to live in pain.
Not for the first time, I feel something ancient and violent curl inside me.
He shouldn’t know this kind of suffering.
Not at five years old.
Not my son.
I pull my phone out and text Lev: ETA?
The response comes two minutes later: Still working. Got two names. One’s in surgery, the other is in New York. Working on calls. Give me a bit more time.
I type out a single word: Now.
Then I look down at Nikolai, his lashes fluttering, his breath shallow but even.
“I’m going to make sure they fix this,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Whatever it takes.”
He doesn’t respond—he’s asleep again—but his fingers curl in the blanket like they’re holding on to something. I don’t know if it’s hope or habit. But I reach out and rest my hand over his anyway.
I’ve taken lives for less than a careless shrug. For less than a child being ignored.
And if this city doesn’t bring me someone good enough, fast enough, I’ll bring them myself. Even if I have to rip them out of another man’s operating room.
The door creaks softly behind me. Irina moves to the side of the room without a word, glancing at Nikolai, then at me, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t ask why I’m here. Doesn’t demand an explanation. She just studies the boy in the bed like she’s done it a thousand times, because she has.
“He’s sleeping,” I murmur.
“I can see that,” she says gently. Her voice carries exhaustion—but not defeat.
We sit in silence for a moment. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
Then finally I say, “You were with them when they were born.”
“Yes.”
“You raised them.”
“I helped raise them,” she corrects, her tone kind, but firm. “Nadya’s done more with less than most women ever have. But yes, I’ve been there.”
Another pause.
“What was he like?” I ask. “When he was little?”
She blinks at me, clearly surprised by the question.
“Quiet,” she says finally. “From the start. Observant. Mila would cry, and he’d just…look around. Like he was collecting information before deciding what to feel.”
That sounds familiar.
“And when he did cry,” Irina adds with a soft smile, “it only stopped when Nadya held him. No one else would do.”
Lev calls back just past noon. I answer before the first ring ends.
“I found him,” he says without preamble. “Dr. Malcolm Rhodes. Cardio-pediatrics. Runs his own private practice uptown. Consults with two of the hospitals but barely sees new patients unless it’s a PR move or someone’s paying six figures.”
“Good,” I say. “Get him here.”
Lev pauses. “Kon, this guy doesn’t do house calls—”
“I’m not asking,” I cut in. “Tell him a car is on its way. And if that doesn’t convince him, tell him I’ll finance his entire new wing if he gets here in the next two hours.”
Another pause. Then a quiet whistle. “Jesus. Alright. I’ll make it happen.”
I end the call and lean back against the chair, watching Nikolai sleep. His breathing’s steadier now, but it’s shallow. His skin’s too pale.
I can buy buildings, fix books, take down enemies—but I can’t fix this.
So I’ll pay the men who can.
It’s late afternoon by the time Dr. Rhodes arrives. White-haired, wiry frame, accompanied by two assistants in dark scrubs. He moves with the precision of a man who knows everyone in the room is watching him, and he thrives on it.
I stand back as they enter, letting them assess Nikolai in silence. The monitors are still beeping steadily. Nikolai hasn’t stirred. Irina greets them politely, professionally, keeping her distance but watching everything.
I hear Nadya’s footsteps before I see her.
The second she walks in, the air changes. She pauses just inside the door, her hair still slightly damp from the shower, dressed in something simple and soft. Her eyes take in the men surrounding the bed, the unfamiliar faces.
She blinks, confused. “I haven’t seen that doctor before,” she says quietly to Irina. “Where’s Dr. Halberd?”
Irina opens her mouth, but I step in first.
“He’s outside,” I say. “Waiting.”
Nadya turns to me, brows knitting. “Why?”
“Because this one”—I gesture to Rhodes without taking my eyes off her—“is better.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Better as in richer? Or better as in more expensive?”
“Better as in my son deserves the best,” I say simply.
Her breath catches.
I should’ve known she’d react this way.
Nadya’s eyes cut to the unfamiliar doctor standing over our son’s chart, and I see the fire rise in her. Not confusion—fury. Controlled, quiet, but burning hot.
She rounds on me with that tight posture she wears like armor, voice low and laced with ice. “You had no right.”