Chapter Four
Aleksei
The engine revs in response to my shift in gears.
For a brief moment, Olga’s hollow cheeks and sunken eyes flash through my mind. She’s lost at least fifteen pounds since my last visit. The makeup-free face, the way her clothes hang from her — she’s hiding something.
Traffic crawls to a stop on Wilshire Boulevard. A construction crew blocks two lanes ahead, forcing cars to merge. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, remembering how she dodged my questions about her health. Kept changing the subject to Bobik’s progress with the new wheelchair.
“ Blyad .” My jaw clenches. That woman has helped raise my son for years, never complained, never asked for more than I offered. The least I can do is ensure she stays healthy enough to continue caring for him.
The line of cars inches forward. A horn blares behind me, some impatient mudak in a Tesla. I ignore him, pulling up my phone’s contact list. Boris answers on the first ring.
“Get me Dr. Hanson’s private number.” My voice comes out harder than intended. “The oncologist.”
“Of course, boss. Something wrong?”
“Just get it.” I end the call, my mind already mapping out the arrangements. Weekly home visits, discrete monitoring, whatever it takes. If Olga won’t take care of herself willingly, I’ll handle it my way.
The traffic remains gridlocked. Through the windshield, I watch construction workers gesture at each other with lazy movements. My phone buzzes — Boris sending the doctor’s information.
I scroll past Hanson’s number to Diana’s. She picks up mid-ring.
“Tell me everything.” Her voice carries that familiar mix of authority and warmth only my sister manages.
“The wheelchair’s a hit.” I merge into the right lane, dodging a delivery truck. “You should see him, Dee. Testing every feature, already memorized all the voice commands.”
“Of course he has. That boy’s brilliance puts us both to shame.” She pauses. “Did you let him show you his latest space drawings?”
“Spent an hour reviewing his theories about black holes.” The memory pulls at my chest. “He wants to be the first wheelchair-bound astronaut.”
“ Solnyshko .” Diana’s tone softens. “He’ll figure out how to do it, too. That mind of his…”
“Exactly like his aunt’s.”
“Flatterer.” She laughs. “Though I never mastered quantum physics at ten.”
A motorcycle weaves between cars ahead, drawing my attention. “Olga’s looking rough.”
“I noticed last week. Did you talk to her?”
“Tried. She gave me some bullshit.” My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “I’m getting Hanson involved. She’s the mother of my child. I need her to be strong for him.”
“Good.” Diana clears her throat. “Speaking of motherhood… have you thought more about what we discussed regarding Sofia?”
“Not this again.” My jaw tightens. “I’ve told you — I don’t want to discuss it.”
“She’s perfect for the position. Her father controls three districts in Moscow, their shipping routes alone—”
“I don’t give a fuck about shipping routes.” I cut through lanes, forcing a BMW to brake hard. “Or her father’s connections.”
“ Lyosha .” Diana’s using that tone, the one that makes her sound exactly like our mother. “You need legitimate heirs. The other families are watching, questioning. Sofia comes from the right background, she understands our world—”
“She’s a spoiled princess who’d run screaming if she knew half of what we do.” A horn blares as I accelerate through a yellow light. “And don’t start with the heir bullshit. I have a son.”
“A son no one can know about.” Her voice softens. “You know I love Bobik more than anything. But the Bratva needs—”
“The Bratva needs to mind its own fucking business.” Heat rises in my chest. “I’m not some breeding stallion for their succession games.”
“You’re the Pakhan . There are expectations—”
“Then let them expect.” I swerve around a delivery truck blocking the right lane. “I’m done discussing this.”
“Aleksei Mikhailovich Tarasov!” Full name — she’s truly irritated now. “You can’t just—”
Traffic ahead comes to a dead stop. I slam the brakes, cursing under my breath as my phone slides off the console. Diana’s voice is still sharp through the speaker.
“Where are you headed anyway? It sounds like you’re in traffic.”
“Children’s charity event at the Fairmont.” I merge into the turn lane. “Supporting medical research.”
“With Sofia?” The hopeful lilt in her voice grates against my nerves.
“No.”
“ Bozhe moy , Aleksei. She called me in tears last night about you canceling dinner again.”
“She’s becoming possessive.” I flick an impatient glance to the rearview mirror. “Showing up at my office unannounced, questioning where I go, who I meet.”
“Because you keep her at arm’s length. The woman just wants—”
“What she wants doesn’t concern me.” The words come out like ice. “I don’t answer to her, or you, or anyone else about how I spend my time.”
“This event… it’s not about that dancer again, is it?”
“Don’t start.” Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s business. Building connections, maintaining our legitimate image.”
“Right.” Diana’s sigh crackles through the speaker. “Just like that art gallery opening last month was ‘business.’”
The Fairmont’s gleaming facade appears ahead, valets rushing to open car doors. “I need to go.”
“ Lyosha —”
I end the call, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. The line of cars crawls forward toward the entrance, where staff in black uniforms direct traffic with practiced efficiency.
The valet opens my door with a slight bow. I toss him my keys, noting his professional demeanor. No gawking at the Bentley, no excessive fawning. Good.
The hotel’s marble lobby gleams under crystal chandeliers. Security personnel track my movements with subtle glances — trained professionals recognizing another predator in their midst. I adjust my cufflinks, striding past the “Children’s Medical Research Gala” signs toward the grand ballroom.
A million. The number crystallizes in my mind as I scan the crowd of tuxedos and evening gowns. One million dollars should make a difference without drawing unwanted attention. Small price to pay considering what I spend on Bobik’s treatments.
My son’s face flashes through my thoughts — his eyes lighting up at the wheelchair’s controls, that brilliant mind already mastering the technology.
How many families here tonight are desperate for similar resources?
How many children suffer because their parents can’t afford experimental treatments or specialized equipment?
“Your invitation, sir?” A young woman in black holds out her hand expectantly. “The auction is over, I’m afraid. But there is a small cocktail gathering for our benefactors that you’re welcome to attend.”
I pull the embossed card from my jacket. “I don’t care about the auction. I’m here to make a donation. Who do I speak to?”
Her eyes widen slightly at my name. “Of course, Mr. Tarasov. Right this way.”
She leads me through clusters of wealthy donors sipping champagne, their jewelry catching the light. These people play at charity, treating it like a social game. For them, it’s about being seen, about maintaining their image of generosity.
For me… I think of Bobik’s determination to master quantum physics despite his limitations. Of Olga’s dedication to his care even as her own health fails. Of all the advantages my wealth and power secure for my son while other children go without.
“The organizer should be…” The hostess fidgets under my stare, scanning the crowded ballroom. “One moment, please.”
She scurries off toward a cluster of staff members near the bar, their black uniforms marking them as event workers rather than guests. I roll my shoulders, adjusting my jacket. The room holds the usual mix of Los Angeles elite — old money trying to look young, new money trying to look established.
A server approaches with a champagne tray. I wave him off without looking. These charity events all follow the same pattern — wealthy donors congratulating themselves on their generosity while barely skimming the surface of what’s needed. But medical research requires deep pockets.
“Mr. Tarasov?” The hostess returns, gesturing toward the far end of the room. “Our event organizer is by the silent auction tables. She’s wearing a blue suit.”
I follow her direction, spotting a woman in a navy blazer and matching skirt speaking with auction bidders. Even from behind, her posture radiates efficiency and control. Professional.
Good.
“That will be all.” I dismiss her with a nod, already moving through the throng.
The hostess retreats with a small bow. I head toward the auction tables, the crowd instinctively parting before me.
Years of command have taught me the power of presence — no need to push when others naturally step aside.
My height gives me an advantage, letting me survey the space efficiently.
The organizer still has her back turned, gesturing at various auction items as she speaks with potential donors. Her voice carries notes of warmth and authority, drawing people in while maintaining clear boundaries.
Interesting.
The woman turns, and my breath catches in my throat. Green eyes meet mine, striking enough to stop me mid-stride. Dark waves of chestnut hair frame delicate features, falling past her shoulders.
Blyad.
My fingers twitch at my sides. Her skirt clings to generous curves, highlighting a figure that’s all soft femininity. Not the usual plastic surgery-enhanced Los Angeles type — this woman has natural beauty that makes my mouth go dry.
I try to shake it off, to recenter. I’m here for business, for Bobik. This reaction I’m having is… inconvenient.
But my body betrays me. Heat spreads through me as I walk toward her. It’s like being drawn to a magnet. My jaw clenches. I haven’t felt this immediate pull toward a woman since… Ever.
Get it together, Tarasov.
Thank fuck, she turns away again, and that emerald stare is torn from mine as she moves from the small group, her head bending toward someone before she moves off toward a sitting area.
I start off after her, forcing my breathing to steady, squaring my shoulders and fighting the urge to adjust my tie.
As I draw closer, the scent of jasmine reaches me — subtle, feminine, nothing like the overpowering perfumes most women here wear. It hits something primitive in my brain, making my fingers itch to touch. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks.
Stop.
I’m the fucking Pakhan . I don’t lose control over a pretty face. Yet here I am, my heart rate picking up like some teenager’s.
Fuck.
My feet almost refuse to move as I process this… reaction. Heat pools low in my gut, primal and demanding.
Chert voz’mi.
What the fuck is happening to me? I’m engaged to Sofia — a strategic match that will strengthen our position in Moscow. The families expect it. Diana wants it.
Yet one look at this woman makes Sofia fade to a ghost in my mind.
Suka.
I grind my teeth, fighting the urge to loosen my tie. The room feels too warm, too close. Those green eyes hit me like a physical blow. No artifice, no calculation — just pure, natural allure that bypasses all my defenses.
Sofia’s face floats through my thoughts — her carefully maintained beauty, the calculated way she touches my arm at social functions. Everything about her screams “shallow socialite.”
But this woman… The gentle curves of her body beneath that tailored suit suggest softness, vulnerability. Things I can’t afford to want.
Focus, mudak.
I’m here for Bobik. For all the children who need help. My help. I’m not here to lose my shit over some American event planner.
The donation. Right. One million dollars, then I leave. Delete this moment from memory.
My feet carry me forward while my mind wages war. Each step closer to her intensifies this… disruption. Like a magnetic field warping my reality.
Get your shit together.
I’ve faced down rival families, orchestrated takeovers, eliminated threats without blinking. Yet this woman’s mere presence sets my pulse racing like some untested vor .
She turns slightly, profile catching the light. Natural beauty that makes the overly-processed women here look like plastic dolls. The gentle slope of her neck draws my eye to where her pulse beats steady beneath delicate skin.
Stop looking, dolboyob.
My hands clench at my sides. I force them to relax, adjusting my cuffs instead. The familiar motion grounds me, reminds me who I am. What I am.
She sinks into a seat and for a moment, there’s an air of such vulnerability to her that I falter yet again. She looks fragile. Like something precious that needs… protecting. And God help me, but for some reason, I find myself wanting to be the one to do it.
Blyad.
What the fuck is happening to me?