Chapter Two #2
My mother used to say that, too, before she disappeared. Always looking over her shoulder, flinching at sudden movements. I’d thought her weak then. Now I understand – she wasn’t paranoid enough.
The memory of her last morning hits hard. Tea growing cold on the kitchen table. Her chair empty when we got home. Father’s knuckles raw and split.
No one ever found a body. But I always suspected him.
A car turns onto the street, headlights sweeping across the houses. I melt into the shadows, watching. Just a neighbor returning home, but my pulse doesn’t slow until they’re gone.
Twenty-five years since my mother vanished, and here I am, standing guard like she used to. But I’m not weak like she was. I have resources she never dreamed of. Power she couldn’t imagine.
The scars on my back itch – a phantom pain from another of my father’s rages. But I’m not that helpless child anymore. My own son will never know that fear. Never trace scars in the mirror and taste copper memories.
I slide into the driver’s seat of my Bentley, letting the leather embrace me.
The report from Bobik’s medical team sits heavy in my mind – the endless physical therapy exhausts him.
Yet his progress with mathematics amazes his tutors.
Still, they worry about his social development.
Isolation is necessary for safety, but at what cost to my son?
One day I’ll know the full story behind what happened to him. And then there’ll be hell to pay.
The engine roars to life as I turn the key, its vibration pulling me from the red haze of memory. I need to focus. Bobik needs a father, not an agent of vengeance.
I pull my phone from the Bentley’s console, checking for messages from Diana. My sister always knows when I need her – “twintuition,” she calls it.
My thumb hovers over our chat history. The last message glows on the screen: “How’s our little genius?” She’d sent it hours ago, before my visit with Bobik.
I type out a response: “Learning the new chair controls. Showing off his quantum physics knowledge.”
The message sits unsent. I delete it, try again: “He misses his aunt.”
Delete.
“Olga looks worse.”
Delete.
Blyad .
Even with Diana, the words don’t come. Aside from Olga and a few trusted employees, she’s the only one who knows about Bobik’s existence, the only one I trust with this secret. Yet here I am, choking on simple truths.
The phone screen dims. I let it, watching my reflection fade to black in the glass. Diana would understand the weight crushing my chest after these visits. She’d pour us both a drink, light one of her joints, and listen without judgment.
But she’s away handling business, and I’m alone in this car, surrounded by security measures.
I slip the phone back into the console. Some burdens even a twin sister can’t share.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as my car cuts through the darkness. The Bratva’s code echoes in my head — hard rules passed down through generations of harder men. No weakness. No vulnerability. No mercy for those who can’t pull their own weight.
Disabled children are burdens.
Liabilities.
How many times had I heard the older vory whisper about “putting down” their weak offspring? Saying it was mercy. Kindness even. The thought makes my teeth grind.
They’d expect the same from me. The mighty Pakhan , required to set an example. If they knew about Bobik…
A truck cuts me off, and I slam the horn, channeling my rage into the blaring sound.
These are the same men who knelt before me, swore loyalty with blood and vodka.
Yet they’d turn on me in an instant if they discovered my “weakness.” They’d see my protection of Bobik as softness. A crack in my armor.
Let them try.
I accelerate, the engine’s growl matching my mood. The Bratva’s rules mean shit compared to my son’s safety. I built my empire on their ancient codes, but I’d burn it all down before I let their barbaric traditions touch my boy.
I check my mirrors again, muscle memory from years of watching my back. No tails. No threats. Just the night and my thoughts, both equally dark.
The city lights blur past as I merge onto the main road. Somewhere out there, some doctor lives a comfortable life, probably sleeping soundly while my son struggles to sit upright. Years of searching, following leads, burning through contacts — and still, that bastard eludes me.
The vehicle responds to my foot heavy on the accelerator, engine growling like the monster I become when I think of that pizda .
But Bobik’s tired smile flashes in my mind, his eyes bright as he showed me his physics diagrams. Such brilliance trapped in a broken body.
“ Der’mo !” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Diana says he needs friends his age. Someone to share his passions with beyond his books and computers. The weight of his loneliness settles on my chest like concrete, because it’s something I can’t fix.
The moment I expose Bobik’s existence to find him companions, I paint a target on his back. All because of the doctor who couldn’t do his fucking job. If I ever get my hands on that motherfucker, he’ll regret the day he was born.
I force the rage down, letting it simmer where I can use it later. I should get my act together. I’m already late for the children’s cancer charity event I promised to attend.
After all, even men like me need a good public image.