Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kirill
I stood there, watching Julian lead Harper away, watching her silhouette disappear around the corner.
She never looked back.
Not once.
I don't know how long I stood there. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. Time lost all meaning in that moment, leaving only the massive void in my chest, like a black hole devouring every sense I had.
San Francisco's wind was cold, carrying the briny tang of seawater, whipping across my face in waves. But I didn't feel cold. I didn't feel anything.
Except pain.
The kind that didn't come from the body, but from somewhere deeper. Like someone had reached into my chest, gripped my heart, and was slowly, slowly tightening their fist.
So this was how she felt?
When I pushed her away. When I held Genevie in front of her. When I pretended not to see her feelings, again and again—did she feel like this too?
Fuck.
I finally got it.
Took me this long to understand what I'd done to Harper Evans.
I'd pushed her into the abyss with my own hands. Hurt her again and again. Let her down again and again.
I'd pushed her straight into someone else's arms.
I deserved this.
I fucking deserved this.
I don't know how I made it back to the car.
When I slid into the driver's seat, my hands were shaking. The tremor spread from my fingertips to my arms, then through my entire body, like something was dismantling me from the inside. I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white from pressure, but the shaking wouldn't stop.
I'd never been this wrecked. Not at ten when I watched my parents tortured to death by our enemies. Not when I killed for the first time after taking over the family business. Not during all those years crawling through the underworld, surviving by the skin of my teeth.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm down. But all I could see was Julian leaning down to kiss Harper. His lips pressing against hers. She didn't push him away. She let him kiss her, right in front of me—
No.
My eyes snapped open. My nails nearly tore into the leather.
I couldn't give up like this.
That male nurse—I didn't do it. I fucking swear I didn't do it. I was a bastard, a cold-blooded mob boss, a man who'd broken Harper's heart. But I wouldn't use such a dirty trick to hurt an innocent person.
If it wasn't me, someone framed me.
And someone who could mimic my traits so precisely, who had a motive to make Harper hate me completely—
Not hard to guess.
Julian Dante.
I'd known the man wasn't simple. Descendant of San Francisco's fallen aristocracy. Famous psycho. Outwardly elegant like a prince from an oil painting, but underneath? Ruthless. Unscrupulous. Twisted.
His approach to Harper was no coincidence.
I pulled out my phone and called Boris.
Whatever it took, I'd find the truth.
Three days later, Boris finally made it to San Francisco and caught the real culprit at an underground casino.
The interrogation room reeked of blood and fear.
The man we'd grabbed was named Marcus. Big build, brown hair. Right now, he was strapped to a chair, shaking all over. His face already showed several bruises—clearly Boris's men had welcomed him properly.
"Name," I said.
"M-Marcus..." he stammered, forehead drenched in cold sweat.
"Marcus," I repeated the name. "Tell me—who sent you to beat that male nurse?"
His eyes flickered. "I-I don't know what you're talking about..."
I didn't speak. Just lightly drew my knife across the back of his hand. A line of blood appeared. He gasped in pain.
"You know I can do much worse," I said calmly. "Who?"
"Okay! Okay! I'll talk!" He finally cracked, voice so shrill it nearly broke. "It was Mr. Dante! Julian Dante sent me!"
My hand stopped.
I'd suspected it, but hearing the name from the killer's own mouth sent my bloodlust straight to my skull. "Details," I commanded, voice low as a beast's growl.
"He—he had me impersonate you," Marcus said, voice shaking. "Black coat, Russian accent. Find the nurse who delivered the scarf. Beat him within an inch of his life. He said—he said he wanted your woman to hate you completely, to never believe another word you said..."
I stared at him, gaze sharp as a poisoned blade.
"What else?"
"Mr. Dante—he's been targeting that woman from the start! He knew she was your wife, knew she—knew she was carrying your child, so he deliberately got close to her!"
My movement stopped abruptly.
"What did you say?" My voice changed. Even I could hear the tremor in it. "What child?"
Marcus flinched at my suddenly altered tone and stammered. "That woman, Harper... she has a child, born in November..."
My brain felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.
Buzzing filled my ears. The world lost all sound in that moment.
Harper had a child. She didn't leave alone—she left with my flesh and blood.
She left New York pregnant, bore everything alone. Her brother's death, the pain of my betrayal, the hardship of pregnancy, the danger of childbirth...
And what was I doing? I didn't even fucking know she was pregnant.
A bitter sensation surged from my chest, lodged in my throat, making it almost impossible to breathe. I gripped the chair back, knuckles white from pressure.
"Keep talking," I said, voice so hoarse it didn't sound like mine. "What's Julian planning to do to them?"
Marcus saw my expression turn terrifying and shook harder.
"He-he said that woman was a good bargaining chip... could use her to threaten you, deal with you, even make you hand over your New York territory. As for the child..."
He suddenly stopped, like he realized he'd said something he shouldn't have.
"Speak," I said through clenched teeth.
"Mr. Dante said... he doesn't need that child." Marcus practically screamed it out. "He said after he takes the woman away, he'll have me arrange an accident, make the child... make the child disappear."
My brain exploded.
He wanted to kill my child.
Murderous rage surged through me, nearly breaking through the last barrier of reason. I wanted to storm Julian's place right now, tear him limb from limb, make him pay in blood for his arrogance.
I had to let Harper know the truth.
"When is Julian planning to take them?" I asked, voice ragged.
"Day—day after tomorrow..." Marcus trembled. "Mr. Dante said, day after tomorrow, he'll take the woman and child out of San Francisco, somewhere no one can find them..."
Day after tomorrow.
Two days left.
Two days to fix everything.
The next afternoon, I showed up at the nursing home entrance.
This was Harper's last day at work. Tomorrow she'd leave this city with Julian, go somewhere "safer." And my child might not even see tomorrow's sunrise.
I couldn't let that happen.
No matter what.
I leaned against the car and lit a cigarette. Winter wind cut like knives, whipping my coat. I inhaled deeply. The nicotine's bitterness filled my lungs but couldn't settle the restlessness inside me.
Six o'clock sharp, the nursing home doors opened.
Harper walked out, holding a thermos. She wore a light blue nurse's uniform, radiating a kind of composed, confident beauty.
She'd changed so much. Become more... radiant.
But I noticed the faint shadows under her eyes.
She hadn't slept well. My heart clenched.
She looked up and saw me. Those eyes that used to shine when they looked at me now held only coldness and wariness. Her face turned icy instantly, like frost had covered it. She turned away, quickening her pace, clearly trying to avoid me.
"Harper!" I strode after her and grabbed her wrist.
"Let go," she said, voice cold as ice.
"Harper, listen to me—"
"I said let go!" She wrenched her hand free, spun around glaring at me. Her eyes burned with anger and disappointment, like they'd burn right through me. "What more do you want? Haven't you hurt enough people? That nurse is still in the hospital! How do you have the nerve to show your face?"
"That wasn't me. I'm here to talk to you about that—"
"Kirill Orlov," she cut me off, voice trembling but firm. "We have nothing to talk about. You've done every rotten thing you could. The only thing left is for you to stay away from me. Never show your face again."
Harper turned to leave.
"Harper." I stopped her, voice so hoarse it was barely mine. "Please."
Harper's steps froze. This was probably the first time she'd heard me say that word.
Me, Kirill Orlov. I never begged anyone. Not kneeling by my parents' corpses. Not with enemy guns to my head. Not struggling to survive through hellish days—I'd never begged anyone.
But now I'd drop every shred of pride and dignity for her.
"You can hate me," I said, walking toward her step by step, voice low. "You can never forgive me. I know I'm a bastard. I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve another chance from you. But..."
I paused, voice strained.
"Please. Give me one chance to talk. Just one. Hear me out. If you still don't believe me, I'll disappear from your life forever. I won't bother you and the child again."
Her back stiffened.
The word "child" was like a stone dropped into a still lake, rippling outward.
"You..." Her voice changed, trembling slightly. "You know?"
"I know," I said hoarsely. "Harper, I know you had a child. Our child."
Silence.
Long silence.
"So what?" Her voice was hard and cold, but her eyes reddened slightly. "What does knowing change now? You think knowing gives you any right to be that child's father?"
"I know I have no right. I know I missed everything. I wasn't there when you were pregnant. I wasn't there when you gave birth. I wasn't there when you needed someone most. I'm a bastard. I don't deserve to be anyone's father."
Her tears finally fell.
"But Harper," I took a step forward. "Whether I have the right or not, that child is my blood. I can't just watch something happen to him."
"Something?" She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Julian Dante," I said, word by word. "He's not who you think he is. He targeted you from the start, planning to use you and the child against me. That nurse who got beaten—Julian had someone impersonate me. He wanted you to hate me completely so he could take you away."
Harper's face changed.
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying." I cut her off. "Harper, give me half an hour. Half an hour to explain, to show you proof. If you still think I'm lying, I'll leave immediately. You'll never see me again."
She stared at me, eyes complicated. I could see her hesitating.
"Half an hour," she finally said, voice still cold and hard, but I heard the slight give in it. "Then get lost."
My heart jumped.
"Thank you."
She didn't look at me again. Just turned and walked toward the street. I followed behind her, emotions churning.
This might be my last chance.