Chapter 26 Konstantin #2
“Come eat,” she says, gentler than I deserve. “We made waffles.”
“I’m not hungry.” I don’t look up from the blinking cursor crawling across the patrol grid.
“You’re killing yourself thinking about your father,” she says, stepping closer, voice still calm but carrying the faintest edge of worry. “You’ve slept maybe ten hours in four days.”
“You don’t know him,” I reply, sharper than intended, though part of me admits the words taste like a lie; she knows enough and probably too much already.
She watches me for a heartbeat longer, as if weighing whether to push. She doesn’t. She only nods, almost imperceptible, and turns away without another word. Her footsteps fade, and the empty doorway is louder than any argument we could have had.
The moment hangs just long enough to ache, then Lev fills the space, closing the office door behind him. He’s stripped of his coat, sleeves rolled, dust of road grit on boots, fresh off the run I sent him on.
“Well?” I ask, pushing the laptop aside. “The Queens drop?”
He lowers into the chair opposite my desk, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Nothing but routine,” he says.
I breathe out, slow, try to let the tension bleed away, but it doesn’t go far. “Four days,” I mutter, rubbing the heel of my palm against my temple. “Four days and Dmitry hasn’t so much as scuffed a sidewalk. What the hell is he planning?”
Lev shakes his head, exhaling. “He’s too quiet. Even Roman’s funeral arrangements. There’s nothing.”
“A Bratva prince dies and the city hears nothing?” I hiss, pacing behind the desk now, rubbing at a knot in the back of my neck that won’t break loose. “Either Dmitry’s trying to finish the story before the funeral starts, or he’s already found another angle to bleed me.”
Lev’s brow furrows, and I add, “He’s not smuggling a corpse across state lines. So Roman’s still here, somewhere quiet.”
“Buried already?” Lev asks, though we both know Dmitry is theatrical; he’d never waste a chance to eulogize his own tragedy in front of the cameras.
“No,” I answer. “He wants an audience when he places blame.” I stop pacing, drop into my chair, the leather creaking under the sudden collapse of tension. “What the hell is he up to?”
Lev doesn’t answer because there is no answer—not yet. The tablet on my desk remains stubbornly green across every safe-house marker, every patrol route. The silence in the data mocks me.
Lev and I are still hovering over the map when tiny footsteps patter across the hardwood. The door swings wider, and Mila steps into the office in a pair of rainbow sneakers that don’t match the rest of her outfit, her chin lifted with the seriousness only a five-year-old can muster.
“Mommy said to say goodbye,” she announces, hands clasped behind her back.
My pulse jolts hard enough to rattle. I set the tablet down, forcing a steady breath. “Goodbye?” I ask, crouching so we’re eye level. “Where are you going, sweetheart?”
“To the hospital. Mommy says it’s just to see the nice doctor and take Nikolai’s heart pictures.” She says it all in one rush, proud that she remembered the details, even prouder of the plastic tiger peeking from her little backpack.
The words punch straight through the fog of patrol routes and contingency grids. I’ve spent four days bracing for my father’s strike, and in the process I’ve let Nadya shoulder every mile of highway between our door and that pediatric ward. The realization tastes like rust.
I stand, glance at Lev, then back at Mila. “Tell Mommy I’m coming with you.”
Mila’s eyes brighten. She spins on her heel and runs off, yelling down the hall that Papa’s getting his coat.
Nadya appears in the doorway, keys in one hand, tablet of scan appointments in the other. There’s surprise in her eyes, quickly smoothed over. “Are you sure? It’s routine—just an echo and labs. They’re not planning anything invasive today.”
I shrug into my jacket, ignoring the ache that tightens across my shoulders when I fasten the last button. “Routine for them doesn’t mean it should happen without me.”
She studies me, weighing the sincerity, maybe expecting me to change my mind at the last second. I don’t.
The drive is short and silent except for Mila’s humming in the back seat, but my mind is loud.
Four days, no donor match, the international registry silent, the last specialist’s voicemail still unanswered.
Every kilometer we cover is another reminder that contingency plans won’t matter if our boy runs out of time while I’m busy drawing battle lines with ghosts.
When the hospital comes into view—bright glass facade sparkling under the noon sun—I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Dmitry’s schemes, Roman’s corpse, the unexploded tension humming through every safe-house marker on my map—they all take a step back.
The cardiology floor smells faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish, and the hum of monitors under the bright noon windows is steady enough that I catch myself counting the beeps as if they might change their rhythm without warning.
Melanie, the head nurse who has shepherded us through every appointment since the diagnosis, greets us at the door with her practiced calm—clipboard tucked to her chest, gentle smile aimed first at Nikolai and then at Mila in her rainbow sneakers.
She shepherds the children toward the scale and blood-pressure cuff while Nadya hands over the latest stack of intake forms.
Nikolai sits through the blood draw without a flinch, only a soft hiss when the needle finds the vein; Mila stands on the footstool beside him and narrates the procedure like a junior nurse, earning an indulgent laugh from the nurse.
Ultrasound gel, tiny electrodes, and another battery of vials disappear into labeled tubes.
The techs move quietly, and I stand useless at the foot of the bed, hands tucked into pockets so tight my knuckles ache, pretending that tension is control.
When the tests are finished, Dr. Halberd asks if we can step into the consult room.
Nadya raises her brows at me, and I nod once.
Irina settles Mila beside Nikolai on the exam table, producing a box of magnetic tiles that clack together in the quiet; my daughter immediately builds a crooked castle while my son watches, tired but intrigued.
Irina promises they’ll be right here when we return.
We follow the doctor out. The consult room is all frosted glass and muted wood grain, sleek in a way meant to soothe families who can afford to be terrified.
Halberd folds his hands over the folder.
“If we don’t secure a full donor match,” he begins, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind, “the next line of defense is a haploidentical transplant using one of you, or cord-blood units from the global bank. Both carry higher rejection risk, but the protocols have improved in the last five years. We’d start immunosuppression immediately.
Failing that, mechanical assist for the cardiac symptoms buys us time, but it isn’t curative. ”
I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose, feel the tension pulse behind my eyes.
Nadya’s jaw is set, polite mask barely containing the fear I know too well.
I ask about gene-editing trials, CRISPR variants in phase two overseas, anything that doesn’t involve gambling my son’s life on percentages.
As soon as the elevator doors close behind us and we’re finally alone in the hallway, away from the sterile calm of the exam room and the doctor’s even-toned probabilities, Nadya exhales.
A long, quiet breath, the kind that feels like letting go of something she’s been holding for far too long.
She leans against the wall opposite me, arms crossed loosely over her chest, but her eyes aren’t guarded like they were earlier. They’re tired, yes. But open.
“I keep thinking I should be doing more,” I murmur.
“You’re doing everything,” she says quickly, firmly, like it’s not even a question. “He sees you, you know. Both of them do.”
I glance up at her. She’s not saying it for comfort. She means it.
There’s a kind of silence that follows between us—not awkward, not strained. Just a shared, fragile understanding that neither of us says aloud: we’re in a fight we don’t fully understand, against an enemy we can’t see.
You’re doing better than I ever could,” I say.
She looks at me then, one eyebrow lifting. “You’re joking, right?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“You’re here,” she says simply. “That counts for something.”
There’s a beat of silence between us, the kind that feels like shared breath.
It’s strange how war and peace can exist in the same man, the same woman.
We’ve been to hell and back, sometimes dragging each other through it.
But right now, in this sterile hospital hallway, there’s a truce.
And maybe even something like understanding.
“I keep thinking…” she starts, then hesitates.
“What?”
Her voice drops a little. “I keep thinking that if we’d never met again, you’d have never known about him. About them. And I hate how some part of me thought that would protect them.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t let the guilt show. I just reach for her hand, and she lets me take it.
“I’m glad I know,” I say. “Even if it’s killing me.”
We stay like that, side by side in the silence, until the elevator chimes its arrival. She presses the button and leans slightly into me, as if even this small moment of nearness helps steady her.
The elevator doors part, and we step out into the familiar corridor. I’m about to tell her I’ll grab something for the kids from the vending machine when a man rounds the corner, walking fast, head down. I step to the side automatically to avoid a collision, and our shoulders brush.
“Sorry,” I say, instinctively.
The man mutters something under his breath and keeps moving. I barely register his face—shaved head, black hoodie, maybe late thirties—but my eyes drop to his forearm as his sleeve shifts with his motion.
A tattoo.
Three black wolves running in a circle.
My stomach drops. My blood turns to ice. My heart gives one heavy, echoing thud and then speeds up, too fast, too loud.
No. No. That’s not possible.
The hallway narrows. Sounds blur. I feel the world slow around me like a movie slipping off the reel.
“Nikolai…” I breathe.
“What’s wrong?” Nadya asks sharply, stepping closer. “Konstantin?”
But I’m not listening. I’m already turning. The man is gone—vanished around a corner—but the image is burned into my skull.
Something’s not right.
Something is terribly, dangerously wrong.
By the time I push open the door to Nikolai’s room, I’m already breathless. But it’s not exhaustion that knocks the wind from me.
It’s Irina.
She’s the first thing I see—standing at the far end of the room, her back pressed to the wall, arms wrapped around Mila like a shield. Her face is pale, lips parted in silent horror. The air in the room feels thick, like something poisonous has seeped in and rooted itself in every corner.
My head snaps around.
And that’s when I see him.
Sitting on the bed—the man who has haunted every dark instinct I’ve ever tried to bury. Dmitry Buryakov.
My father.
Cool as winter, dressed in tailored charcoal and a coat too fine for the hour. His legs are crossed casually, one arm resting behind Nikolai, the other hand resting lightly on the boy’s knee as if he belongs there—as if he ever had a right.
And then his voice, smooth and venom-laced.
“Hello, Konstantin.”