Chapter Eleven
Aleksei
Peace.
Fucking finally.
My shoulders drop as I lean back in my leather chair, savoring the quiet. Until the video call notification pierces the silence. Vasya’s profile picture fills my screen.
Blyad .
No rest today.
I tap “accept.” My older brother’s broad frame appears, his usual stoic expression replaced by something tighter. More urgent.
“We have a situation.” His deep voice carries none of its usual calm.
“About our West Coast shipments?” I brace myself.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Something bigger. Tomas Larkin.”
“Tomas Larkin?” I frown.
“The doctor who performed Bobik’s delivery.”
My blood runs cold. The pen in my grip snaps, ink spilling across my fingers. Ten years of searching, of following dead ends and false leads. The doctor who destroyed my son’s future, who fled like a coward in the night.
“You found him?” My voice comes out rough, primal.
Vasya’s face fills my screen as he leans closer. “He changed his name to Fermont. Moved to Los Angeles with his family.” He pauses, watching my reaction.
“What?” I blurt. The armrest cracks under my grip. “The bastard’s hiding here in LA? Show me everything.” I force the words out through gritted teeth.
Documents flood my screen. Forged birth certificates, travel documents, proof of residence.
I lean forward, muscles coiled tight as Vasya’s words wash over me. Each detail hits like a physical blow.
“He established a private practice in Beverly Hills under the name Thomas Fermont.” Vasya’s voice stays steady, clinical. “Changed specialties from obstetrics to general practice. Smart move — harder to trace.”
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. The bastard’s been living the high life while my son suffers.
“Wife, two kids.” Vasya continues, tapping at his keyboard. “A son and a daughter.”
The perfect fucking American family. Building a new life after destroying my son’s.
“But here’s what you need to know, brother.” Vasya’s tone shifts, darker. “I found the hospital records from that night.”
Ice spreads through my veins. “Show me.”
Documents appear on my screen. Medical charts, nurse’s notes, blood alcohol readings.
“He was drunk.” Vasya’s words hit like bullets. “Three times over the legal limit when he performed the delivery. Tried to cover it up afterward, but the night nurse documented everything before getting fired.”
Red clouds my vision. The edge of my desk splinters under my grip.
“ Mudak .” The word comes out as a growl. “He was drunk when he broke my son? While he fucked up his spine and put him in a wheelchair for life?”
The memories flood back — Bobik’s screams when I saw him in the neonatal unit, the panic when the doctors saw me, Olga’s pale face as she told me that our child would never be normal. All because this piece of shit couldn’t stay sober for one fucking delivery.
“I want everything.” My voice sounds foreign, dangerous. “Every detail of his new life. Every place he goes. Every person he talks to.”
“Already compiling it.” Vasya nods. “But there’s more…”
The medical terms blur together as Vasya walks me through the delivery records. Each clinical detail hits like a physical blow, painting a picture I’ve imagined countless times over the years.
“The forceps application showed clear signs of improper positioning.” Vasya’s voice stays steady, professional. “Blood alcohol content of 0.24 affected his motor control. When the baby presented with shoulder dystocia, Larkin panicked.”
My knuckles crack as I grip the desk. The wood splinters beneath my fingers.
“He applied excessive lateral traction.” Vasya continues, tapping through documents. “The force damaged the C5 and C6 vertebrae. Permanent injury to the brachial plexus nerves.”
I see Bobik’s face, bright with excitement over his new wheelchair. The way his small arms strain to lift even light objects. His brilliant mind trapped in a body that won’t obey him.
“The night nurse’s report indicates she tried to intervene.” More tapping. “Suggested calling in the on-call physician when she smelled alcohol on Larkin’s breath. He threatened to have her fired if she spoke up.”
“Timeline.” The word comes out like gravel. “When exactly did he run?”
“Three days after the delivery. Once he realized whose kid he’d messed with.” Vasya pulls up travel records. “Booked flights to Germany under his real name as a diversion. Actually flew to New York through Canada, then drove cross-country to California.”
“Planned.” I taste blood from biting my cheek. “The mudak had an escape route ready.”
“ Da . The identity change was arranged months before. He knew someone would eventually discover his drinking.”
The rage builds, familiar yet sharper now with each new detail. This wasn’t just negligence. The bastard knew he was dangerous. Kept operating, anyway. Then ran like a coward when it all went wrong.
“How long?” My voice sounds strange, distant. “How long has he been living his perfect fucking life in Los Angeles?”
“Ten years,” Vasya says bluntly.
“Ten fucking years.” My fist slams into the desk. “How did we miss this?”
“He had help.” Vasya’s expression darkens. “High-level connections in witness protection. Not the usual program — something deeper. Black budget stuff.”
The implications suck the wind from my lungs. Government involvement. No wonder our usual methods failed.
“Show me.”
Vasya shares his screen, revealing a web of redacted documents and classified files. “See these signatures? Deputy Director level. Someone wanted him hidden badly enough to bypass normal channels.”
I lean forward, studying the patterns of bureaucratic breadcrumbs. A decade of searching, of following false leads while this mudak hid behind American badges and paperwork.
“Who?” The word comes out as a growl.
“Working on that.” Vasya’s fingers fly across his keyboard. “The trail leads through three different agencies. CIA involvement early on, then homeland security, finally some black ops budget I can’t trace yet.”
I look down at my black ink-stained fingers. Like blood, but wrong. Not enough.
“They knew.” The rage builds, cold and familiar. “They knew what he did to my son, and they helped him anyway.”
“ Da .” Vasya’s face hardens. “Found some interesting notes in the case file. They were monitoring our search efforts.” He heaves a sigh. “Some men have friends in high places. You’ve made enemies there.”
My jaw sets. It’s an occupational hazard, I guess. My life isn’t exactly above board. But I would never have imagined this. While I hunted this bastard across continents, my own government contacts were helping hide him. Playing me for a fool.
“Every name.” My voice sounds foreign, dangerous. “Every official who touched this. Every piece of paper they signed. I want it all.”
The documents blur as my mind races through implications, possibilities. Los Angeles. Close enough to touch. All these years searching Europe, Asia, South America — and the fucker was practically in my backyard.
“We have him where we want him, brother,” Vasya says. “We’ve got everything. Work schedule, social patterns, security measures. He works four days a week at the clinic. Lives in a gated community in Beverly Hills. No personal security beyond standard neighborhood patrols.”
Soft. Comfortable.
Vulnerable .
“What about the government protection?”
“Minimal active surveillance.” Vasya’s voice carries a hint of satisfaction. “They think the trail’s gone cold after ten years. Monthly check-ins, occasional drive-bys. Nothing we can’t work around.”
I study the satellite view of Larkin’s — no, Fermont’s — neighborhood. Wide streets, manicured lawns, security cameras that our tech can easily bypass. A prison of luxury, but one with plenty of blind spots.
“The clinic?”
“Private practice, third floor.” More images appear. “Corner office, private elevator access. He takes lunch alone in his office most days. Arrives by 8 AM, leaves between 6 and 7 PM.”
Regular patterns. Predictable habits. The arrogance of a man who thinks he’s safe.
“Financial trails?”
“Complex.” Vasya pulls up banking records. “Multiple accounts, property holdings through shell companies. But there’s a pattern — large cash deposits every quarter. Consistent amounts.”
“Bribes.” The word tastes bitter. “Still paying for his protection. How soon can you have a complete infiltration plan?”
“Already done.” Vasya’s voice smacks of satisfaction. He’s as invested in this as I am.
Bobik’s face flashes in my mind once again — his bright eyes lighting up over the new wheelchair controls, masking the pain beneath.
The way his thin arms strain to reach buttons normal kids wouldn’t think twice about.
How he compensates with that brilliant mind, always finding workarounds for what his body won’t do.
I close my eyes, and a different image forms. Bobik on a football field, strong legs pumping as he races down the sideline. His shoulders broad and straight, not hunched from hours in that chair. The sound of his laughter, free and wild, not carefully measured to hide discomfort.
My hands clench. He should be out there playing, getting scraped knees and grass stains. Learning to throw a proper punch. Instead, he’s trapped in that fucking attic, watching other kids through windows, reading about the life he should have had.
The fantasy shifts. Bobik standing tall at my side during Bratva meetings, carrying himself with the natural authority that’s his birthright. Not hidden away like some shameful secret, but proud and strong. The son I should have been able to acknowledge openly.
All stolen by one drunk doctor who couldn’t stay sober for one fucking delivery.
“Time for fantasy is over. We have the bastard’s location now. His schedule, his habits, his weaknesses.”
The rage settles into something colder, more focused. More useful. Ten years I’ve waited for this.
“A quick death would be too merciful.” My voice sounds foreign even to my own ears. “He needs to understand what he’s done. What he stole.”
I pull up the medical records again, studying the clinical description of my son’s injuries. Each technical term represents years of pain, of lost opportunities, of a childhood spent in physical therapy instead of on playgrounds.
“And a bullet would be too easy.” The plan crystallizes in my mind, cold and perfect as ice. “The mudak needs to understand. Really understand.”
My fingers trace the medical diagrams on my screen, following the path of nerve damage that changed my son’s life forever.
“C5 and C6 vertebrae.” The medical terms feel like razor blades on my tongue. “Same injury height as Bobik’s. But no quick surgical mistake this time. I want it done slowly. Deliberately.”
Vasya nods, his expression darkening. “We have men with certain… skills.” A smile twitches his lips up at the corners, but there’s nothing warm about it.
“Good.” I lean forward, the leather of my chair creaking. “I want him conscious. Want him to feel every moment, to understand exactly what’s happening. Let him experience the same helplessness he inflicted on my son.”
“And after?”
“After?” A cold smile splits my face. “He lives. In a wheelchair. Dependent on others for every basic function. Just the way he left my boy.”
The symmetry feels right. Poetic, even. Let him spend decades staring at walls, trapped in a useless body while his mind stays sharp. Let him know exactly why this happened to him.
“Start making arrangements.” I check my watch. “I want everything in place within the week.”