Chapter 28
Three days later the snow in Yekaterinburg feels heavier than the snow in Ravensburg ever did.
Thicker. Meaner. Like the city itself remembers every ugly thing that happened here and refuses to let it go.
We had Sergei’s body flown back because this is where he belongs—buried in the dirt that raised him, far away from Cole, far away from the life I am trying to build.
I could have let them put him in the ground in Ravensburg, but the thought of him being even that close to what is mine made my skin crawl.
So Russia it is. One last trip to put the monster to rest.
My mother stands beside me in a black coat that looks too thin for the cold, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as the priest speaks. We are the only ones here. No friends. No distant relatives. No one who actually mourned the man. Just us, the snow, and a priest who never knew Sergei Petrov.
“...forgiveness,” the priest says, his voice solemn and practiced, breath fogging in the freezing air. “Mercy for those who have fallen. Family is the greatest gift, even in its brokenness. Repentance cleanses the soul, and a father’s love, however imperfect, echoes into eternity...”
I stare at the coffin lowered into the frozen ground and feel nothing but a cold, steady relief.
You have absolutely no idea who that man was.
The thought rings so loudly in my head I almost say it out loud.
The irony of it all—the priest speaking of love and repentance while lowering a violent drunk into the earth—makes my fists itch.
I want to punch something. The headstone.
The priest. The fucking snow. But I stay still, my hands clasped behind my back.
My mother cries harder at the words “a father’s love,” fresh tears freezing on her cheeks.
She is mourning the version of him she somehow still carries in her heart, the one that existed before the bottle and the fists took over.
Even after everything he did to her—to us—she stands here weeping for him.
I do not understand it. I never will. But I reach out anyway and rest a heavy hand on her shoulder, letting her lean into me. She is the only reason I am here.
Yesterday Cole had argued with me for almost an hour, voice cracking with frustration and pain meds, demanding to come with me.
He wanted to be here, to stand beside me, to support me through something he thought I needed support for.
I told him no. Sharper than I meant to. I would rather bring him to Russia one day to see the places that made me, to eat the food my mother makes when she is happy, to show him where I learned to skate on ponds that froze solid every winter. Not this. Not for this.
The priest finishes his empty words. The coffin disappears under dirt and snow.
My mother whispers something in Russian I do not catch, and I guide her gently away from the grave, one arm around her shoulders.
The cold bites at my face but I barely feel it.
All I can think about is getting back to Ravensburg.
Back to Cole. Back to the life I chose instead of the one my father tried to force on me.
The priest offers more condolences. I nod once, polite and empty, and lead my mother toward the car waiting at the edge of the graveyard.
My mother turns to me as I open the car door for her, snowflakes catching in her dark hair like tiny stars. Her eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted from crying, but there is a softness there that always undoes something in my chest. She reaches up and cups my face with cold hands.
“Vitya… I’m sorry I was unable to protect you properly,” she says in Russian, voice cracking on the words.
“Ma…” I scoff, helping her into the car before sliding in after her. “That’s like saying Elias would protect someone from me.”
She lets out a small, watery laugh despite everything. “He is small…”
I snort, the sound low in the quiet of the car as the driver starts the engine. The heater kicks on, fighting the Russian winter pressing in from all sides.
“Cole’s small too,” she says after a moment, glancing at me with that knowing look mothers have.
“Yeah, he is… compared to me.” I lean back against the seat, staring out at the graveyard disappearing behind us. “So, Mom… I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault. And he already paid for his sins.”
I gesture vaguely toward the fresh grave we just left, the motion casual, final.
She watches me, searching my face the way only she can. I do not look away. There is nothing to hide from her—not anymore. She has lived through the same nightmare. She knows what kind of man he was. Eventually she just nods once, slow and tired, and reaches over to squeeze my hand.
The car winds through familiar streets toward the old house—toward the place I spent too many years learning how to survive.
My mother is quiet for a few minutes, staring out the window at the snow-covered buildings sliding past. Then, without warning, she starts laughing.
Small at first, a soft, surprised sound that builds and cracks until it turns a little hysterical, her shoulders shaking as she presses a hand over her mouth.
I stare at her, confused. “Ma?”
She wipes at her eyes, still chuckling through the tears. “Can you… oh dear… can you imagine he died because he couldn’t stop drinking? Vitya, that is so… ironic. Or poetic.”
“Mhm… yeah,” I say, my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The laughter dies almost immediately. She turns to look at me fully, the smile fading from her face as she studies my expression. The silence stretches, heavy and knowing. “Viktor… That is why he died, isn’t it?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I lean my head back against the headrest of the car, staring up at the ceiling. The truth sits easy on my tongue now. No shame. No hesitation. “He touched Cole,” I say simply.
She looks at me, her eyes widening in horror, staring at her son like she is seeing something new and terrifying in the boy she raised. “Vitya…” she whispers, the name soft and broken.
She keeps looking at me for a very long, quiet moment, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the crunch of snow under the tires. I look back at her steadily, letting her see whatever she needs to see.
“He touched… Cole,” I say again, quieter this time, the words deliberate.
The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we have never fully spoken about—the years, the bruises, the fear, the survival.
Then, finally, my mother reaches up with a trembling hand and pats my cheek, gentle and warm despite the cold still clinging to her fingers. “Good boy, Vitya,” she whispers.
The words settle over me like a benediction I never knew I needed. Not from a priest. Not from the grave. From her. The only person who truly understands what that man took from us.
I cover her hand with mine for a second, squeezing once, before the car turns onto the old street. The house is still there at the end of the block, small and weathered, waiting like it always does.
“But he did die because of vodka,” I say as the driver pulls into the old driveway, the tires crunching over packed snow.
My mother actually snorts at that—a sharp, surprised sound that turns into a tired little laugh. I smirk, small and private, and get out to open her door as well. I help her out of the car, steadying her on the icy path, and guide her inside the house.
The second the door opens, the smell hits us—stale alcohol, old cigarettes, and that sour, lived-in rot that never really left. My mother wrinkles her nose.
“God, this place stinks,” she mutters, already moving through the rooms and throwing windows open despite the freezing air outside. Cold wind rushes in, carrying snowflakes and the faint scent of pine from somewhere down the street.
“So… cleaning or lunch?” I ask, rolling up my sleeves.
“Cleaning,” she says without hesitation.
We fall into it immediately, side by side, the way we used to when I was younger and we tried to make the house feel like ours again after one of his benders.
Empty vodka bottles clink as we toss them into a growing pile by the door.
Old sheets that no amount of washing could ever fully save get stripped and bundled up, still carrying the sour stink of alcohol and sweat.
Furniture gets pushed around. Dust and ghosts get swept out with every pass of the broom.
“I want to sell this place,” my mother says as we move into the third room, her voice quiet but firm.
I am on my knees beside the old bed, pulling out a disgusting collection of empty bottles, crumpled papers, and things I do not want to look at too closely. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest, scrunching up her entire face in pure disgust at the state of it all.
I pause, a half-empty bottle in my hand, and look up at her. The house has been a weight on her for decades. A prison disguised as home. Selling it makes sense. It feels like the final nail in the coffin we just lowered into the ground.
“Okay,” I say simply, tossing the bottle into the growing pile with the rest. “We will sell it.”
She nods once, sharp and decisive, then steps further into the room to help, muttering under her breath about the mess her ex-husband left behind.
We are knee-deep in the wreckage of the third room when my mother pauses, wiping her hands on an old rag. She looks at me carefully, the way she used to when I was young and she was trying to read how bad the night had been. “Viktor… do I need to worry about police or anything?” she asks.
I look up at her from where I’m crouched, pulling more junk out, and smile. “No, Ma. I told you, vodka killed him.”
She stares at me for a beat, not quite believing it. “Seriously? Vodka?”
“Yeah.” I toss another empty bottle into the pile with a dull clink. “He even told me some stories from when I was a kid. Two bottles and a half.”
“I’m so sorry you went through that,” she says softly.
I stand up, brushing dust from my hands, and pull her into a brief, careful hug. She leans into it for a moment, small and fragile against my chest, before we both go back to cleaning.
Later that night I lie in my old childhood bedroom, the same narrow bed that still feels too small for my frame.
The house is quiet now, cleaned as much as we could manage in one day, windows cracked open to let the cold air chase out the last of the stench.
My mother is asleep down the hall. I should be sleeping too, but sleep has never come easy in this room.
I grab my phone and check the time. With the ten-hour difference, it is still early back in Ravensburg. I type out a quick text to Cole:
Take your antibiotics. Don’t make me call the doctor.
I hit send and set the phone on my chest, staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. A moment later the screen lights up—not a text, but a FaceTime call. I answer it immediately.
Cole’s face fills the screen, flushed and glassy-eyed, curls a wild mess against the pillow. He is clearly high as hell on the good pain meds.
“Hey, Daddy,” he purrs, voice slow and sweet and filthy, the word dragging out like honey.
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest despite the long day. “Hi, soroka.”
Cole’s grin turns wicked, lazy and dopey from the meds. “Mmm, I like when you call me that in that voice. All deep and Russian and bossy. Did you miss me? Because I’m in your bed right now, wearing your hoodie and nothing else, thinking about how big you are and how much I want—”
I cut him off with a low growl, shifting against the too-small mattress as heat curls low in my stomach.
“Careful, magpie. You are already in trouble for skipping your antibiotics earlier. Keep talking like that and I will make you describe exactly what you are doing with your good hand when I get back.”
Cole lets out a breathy little laugh, eyes half-lidded, clearly loving every second of it. “Promise, big guy? Because I’ve been so good and patient and bored without you here to pin me down and—”
“Cole,” I tease affectionately as I shift on the narrow bed. “Stop making both of us horny when you know I can’t fuck you properly until you heal.”
Cole actually pouts—full bottom lip out, glassy eyes wide and dramatic, the expression so ridiculously endearing it makes my chest tighten. Even through the screen, even high on the painkillers and half a world away, he is lethal.
“But Vik…” he whines, dragging my name out in that needy way that always gets him whatever he wants. “It’s been days. I’m dying here. Your hoodie smells like you and I’m so hard and I can’t even touch myself the way I want because of this stupid wrist and—”
I groan softly, closing my eyes for a second. “You are going to be the death of me. Be good. Take your antibiotics like I told you. When I get back I will take care of you properly. Until you forget every minute I was gone.”
Cole makes a soft, frustrated sound that goes straight to my cock, but he nods, still sulking adorably. “Fine. But you owe me so many orgasms. And cuddles. And you have to put my tongue ring back in every single time.”
“Deal,” I murmur. “Now show me that pretty face and tell me how your day was before I decide to make you come just from my voice.”