Chapter 21
I am in the living room helping her pack the last of the Christmas presents into gift bags, tying ribbons with fingers that feel too big for the delicate task.
She moves around me with efficiency, humming an old Russian lullaby under her breath as she wraps another batch of cookies she baked yesterday.
The house is warm, smaller than the one I grew up in, but brighter.
Every time I see her smile here, something tight in my chest eases a little more.
“You are nervous,” she says softly in Russian, not looking up from the cookie tin she is sealing with a red bow. “About the boy. And his sister.”
I pause, fingers stilling on a ribbon. “He is… a lot,” I admit. “Loud. Bright. Like you used to be. I just want them to see you the way I do. Not… not with all the noise.”
She laughs gently, the sound still carrying echoes of the woman she was before my father dimmed her.
“Vitya, if he is half as good as you say, and if he makes you smile the way you have been smiling these past weeks, then I will love him. Loud is not bad. Loud means alive.” She reaches over and squeezes my arm.
“And I survived your father. I can survive a hockey team and one loud American boy. Now stop worrying and finish that ribbon before you strangle the present.”
I huff a quiet laugh and nod, the tension in my shoulders loosening just a fraction under her familiar touch. She has always known how to steady me, even when the rest of the world felt like it was falling apart.
The doorbell rings, so I straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans. “That must be them.” I head toward the door, but when I open it, it is not Cole. It is my father.
He stands on the porch, coat collar turned up against the cold, his eyes bloodshot and face flushed with drink even at four in the afternoon. I freeze completely, hand still gripping the doorknob, every muscle locking up as old memories and fresh rage surge through me at once.
“Son,” my father says in Russian, like the word itself tastes bitter on his tongue.
“No,” I reply instantly, the word cutting through the cold air between us like a blade. My hand stays tight on the door, body blocking the entrance completely. “Why are you in Ravensburg?” I ask, because I left him in Russia — alone, drunk, and far away from her. Far away from us.
“I came to take my wife,” he says, eyes bloodshot and defiant as he tries to peer past me into the house.
“You have no wife,” I answer, every muscle in my body coiled tight. “You lost that right a long time ago.”
His face twists. The sweet, pathetic mask drops in an instant, replaced by the ugly, violent man I grew up fearing. He lunges forward, trying to shove past me into the house, shoulder slamming into my chest as he snarls, “She is still mine! Move, boy! I will drag her back myself if I have to!”
I grab him by the throat before he can take another step, and slam him back against the doorframe hard enough that the wood rattles, lifting him slightly off his feet.
He gasps, his hands clawing at my wrist, but I do not let go.
“You will not touch her. You will not come near this house. You will not speak her name again. She is free of you. I made sure of it. If you ever try to come near her — or me — again, I will finish what should have been done years ago. Do you understand me?”
He wheezes, his face turning red, eyes bulging with a mix of fear and drunken rage. “You think you are better than me? You are my blood. You will end up just like me. That loud American boy of yours? You will break him too. Just like I broke her.”
The words hit like a cheap shot, but I do not flinch.
My grip tightens for a second, just enough to make him choke, before I shove him back harder against the frame.
“I am nothing like you. And I never will be. Get the fuck off my property before I call the police and have you dragged back to Russia in cuffs.”
He spits at my feet, still struggling, but the fight is draining out of him as he realizes I am not the scared boy he used to terrorize.
I hold him there a moment longer, letting him feel exactly how powerless he is now, before I release him with a hard push that sends him stumbling back down the porch steps.
“Vik…” Cole’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, soft and worried. I hear the presents drop from his hands with a soft thud as both he and Lena appear at the bottom of the porch steps, their eyes wide at the scene in front of them.
I turn my head instinctively toward him, the need to make sure he is okay overriding everything for a split second.
My father takes immediate advantage. With a drunken snarl he lunges, flipping our positions with strength born of rage and alcohol. He slams me back against the opposite doorframe hard enough that the wood creaks, his forearm pressing across my throat as he gets in my face.
“You think you can keep her from me?” he spits. “And now this? This loud American whore is why you are weak. Look at you — pathetic. He will ruin you just like you ruined our family. You are no son of mine. Just a weak little boy hiding behind a pretty face and a hockey stick.”
My fist connects with his jaw with a sickening crack.
He staggers, but I do not stop. I hit him again, and again, driving him back down the porch steps as years of suppressed rage pour out of me.
“Do not speak about him,” I snarl between punches.
“You do not get to say his name. You do not get to look at him. You are nothing. You will never touch my family again.”
My father tries to swing back, cursing and spitting blood, but I am bigger, stronger, and far more sober. I keep hitting him, lost in the violence, until strong hands suddenly grab me from behind — Cole and Lena both pulling me back, Cole’s voice cutting through the red haze.
“Viktor! Stop! He’s not worth it!”
I am breathing hard, my knuckles split and bloody, staring down at my father sprawled on the snow-covered ground, groaning and cursing. Cole’s arms are wrapped tight around my waist from behind, holding me back, his face pressed between my shoulder blades like he is trying to anchor me.
My eyes close for a single second as the weight of what just happened crashes over me.
Cole saw that. He saw me violent toward my own family.
Sure, he has seen me throw hits on the ice — especially when someone dared to go after him — but never like this.
Never outside the rink. Never this raw, this personal.
The shame burns hot in my chest. I shake my head, the old fear rushing back in like poison.
I was right all along. I should stay away from him.
I will only take his light away, just like my father took hers. I am no better.
I sigh heavily and turn to face Cole, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks even as my own hands are still trembling with leftover rage and blood. “Get inside, Cole.”
“Vik…” Cole whispers, his eyes searching mine, clearly seeing the darkness swirling there.
I tear my gaze away from him before I can drown in it.
I bend down, grab the dropped presents from the snow, and gently but firmly push both Cole and Lena inside the house.
My mother is standing just inside the doorway, one hand pressed to her mouth, staring out at her ex-husband bleeding in the snow with a mixture of horror and old, deep pain in her eyes.
The door clicks shut behind us, cutting off the cold and the sight of him. For a moment the house is silent except for the distant sound of my father cursing and stumbling away through the snow.
I stand there, and feel the weight of everything I have tried so hard to protect crashing down around me. Cole is watching me. Lena is watching me. My mother is watching the door like she is waiting for him to come back.
I can feel Cole watching me like a hawk, his eyes burning into the side of my face. It hurts more than the split skin because I know he can tell something is wrong. He always can. The shame and the fear twist tighter in my chest. I should have kept him away from this. From me.
Then my mother snaps out of her frozen state.
She moves quickly, fussing over all three of us like we are still children who have come in from playing in the snow too long.
“Come, come inside properly,” she says in Russian at first, then switches to careful, accented English as she notices Cole and Lena fully.
“You must be freezing. And you — oh, your hand, Vitya. Let me see.”
Cole immediately reaches for my injured hand, trying to clean the blood with the sleeve of his own jacket, brow furrowed in concern.
I gently pull it away from him, not wanting him to touch the mess I made.
He frowns, hurt flashing across his face, but I cannot look at him right now.
Not when I feel like I am one step away from proving every fear I have ever had about myself right.
My mother turns to Cole and Lena with a warm, if slightly shaken, smile. “I am Marina,” she says as she offers her hand first to Lena, then to Cole. “Viktor’s mother. It is so nice to finally meet you both. He has told me so much about you.”
Lena, bless her, is the only one who seems able to keep up with the moment.
She takes my mother's hand firmly and smiles back, already chatting easily. “It’s wonderful to meet you too. I’m Lena, Cole’s sister.
This is my brother Cole — the loud one Viktor keeps talking about.
” She gently steers Cole forward with a hand on his back, giving him a little push like she knows he needs it.
“Cole, say hi properly. Don’t just stand there looking like you saw a ghost.”
Cole blinks, still clearly spiraling, but manages a small, shaky smile as he shakes her hand. “Hi… it’s really nice to meet you, ma’am. Sorry about… all of this.”
My mother's eyes soften as she looks at him, then at me, and something like understanding passes over her face. She squeezes Cole’s hand a little longer than necessary.
“No apologies needed. You are family now. Come, let us get you all warm and have some tea before we go to this big dinner. I made cookies. Lots of them.”
I stand there watching them, the ache in my chest only growing as Cole’s worried eyes keep flicking back to me. I do not know how to tell him I am terrified I will only bring darkness into his life the way my father brought it into hers.
We end up sitting down for tea and cookies in the small, warm kitchen.
My mother moves around with quiet purpose, setting out plates and pouring tea like hosting guests after a violent confrontation is completely normal.
Lena carries most of the conversation with easy, light-hearted chatter — asking my mother about her baking, about life in Ravensburg, about the little traditions she is trying to build in her new home.
She is good at this. She fills the space without pushing, and I can see my mother slowly relaxing, a small smile appearing as she answers Lena’s questions and offers her another cookie.
Cole sits beside me, quieter than usual. He keeps stealing worried glances at me every few seconds, searching my face like he is waiting for me to break. I hate it. I hate that I put that look there.
Under the table, I reach for his hand. My fingers slide between his, gripping gently but firmly, stroking over his knuckles.
Cole startles slightly, then squeezes back hard, like he was waiting for permission.
Some of the tension in his shoulders eases, but the worry in his eyes does not fully disappear.
My mother notices but she says nothing about it. She simply pushes the plate of cookies closer to Cole with a gentle smile. “Try the ones with the jam. They were Vitya’s favorite when he was small.”
Lena grins, clearly enjoying herself. “He still has a sweet tooth, you know. I’ve seen him steal cookies from the team kitchen like a raccoon.”
Cole laughs weakly, but his thumb keeps rubbing against mine under the table, grounding both of us.
By five thirty we are loading up my car with the presents and the many containers of cookies my mother baked for everyone.
The trunk fills quickly with brightly wrapped gifts and sweet-smelling tins, the cold December air biting at our faces as we work.
Lena helps carry things, Cole hovers close to me, still a little quiet after everything that happened earlier, but present.
Then the argument starts over who sits in the front passenger seat.
“No, Cole… you sit with Viktor, it is okay,” my mother says warmly, already moving toward the back door. “I will sit in the back with Lena.”
Cole immediately shakes his head, looking genuinely distressed at the idea. “Ma’am… really, it’s okay. I can sit in the back.”
I stand there with Lena, both of us watching them go back and forth like it is a tennis match. My mother insists again, gentle but firm. Cole protests again, polite but stubborn. It would be funny if I were not still carrying the weight of what happened on the porch.
I step forward, and grab Cole by the back of the neck —firm enough to guide him. “Enough,” I say, steering him toward the front passenger seat. I open the door and gently sit him down inside. “You are sitting with me. End of discussion.”
Cole blinks up at me, mouth opening like he wants to argue, but he closes it again when he sees my face. I close the door, walk around to the driver’s side, and get in. My mother smiles softly as she settles in the back with Lena, and Lena gives me a knowing little grin in the rearview mirror.
The car is quiet for a moment as I start the engine, but Cole’s hand finds mine on the gear shift almost immediately, squeezing once. I squeeze back, letting the warmth of his touch settle some of the storm still lingering in my chest.